Blood World

by Chris Mooney

  “For the moment.”

  “You said you wanted to rise through the ranks, get a top position. Well, this is the price of admission.”

  Faye stared off at the traffic in the distance.

  “I’m offering you the chance to create your own future,” Sebastian said. “And I’ll do everything I can on my end to help you find out what happened to your brother.”

  Faye turned back to him.

  “I’ll drive,” she said, opening the door.

  * * *

  * * *

  Santa Paula was an hour away without traffic.

  Three hours later, they were still twenty miles out.

  On the radio, a female newscaster was discussing the various wildfires in California. The worst one, the Sierra Fire, named because it had originated in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, had already burned its way past the small, quiet, and idyllic town of Paradise, located in the northern part of the state—a good five hundred or so miles from Santa Paula. The wildfire was so bad, so swift, and so crazy out of control that National Guard helicopters and military C-130 airplanes were being brought in to help fight it.

  The Sierra Fire was dominating the news. Sebastian was more interested in the Creek Fire. That one had started on Mud Creek Road near Steckel Park, which was to the north of Santa Paula, five or so miles away. There was no mention of the severity of the fire, whether or not it was contained, as he had read online back at the house that it was.

  Still, what he’d read about the Creek Fire being contained—that could change, thanks to the unpredictability of the Santa Ana winds.

  The National Weather Service used a color-coded system for wind strength. Last night, the color-code had gone from red, the designation for high winds, to the never-before-used purple, which signified extreme. The merciless and unrelenting mountain winds had produced gusts of more than eighty miles per hour—the strength of a Category 1 hurricane. Those same winds were expected to come into the region again later tonight. They, combined with the dry land and lack of humidity, were breathing new life into all the wildfires, but especially into the Sierra Fire.

  Faye turned down the radio. “Question,” she said, her tone cautious, seeing if it was okay for her to talk. She had been unusually quiet over the past few hours, Sebastian figuring she sensed his bottled rage, didn’t want to be the one to ignite it.

  Sebastian cocked his head to her.

  “MLS,” she said. “That’s a real estate term, right?”

  Sebastian nodded. “Multiple Listing Service. Why?”

  “That day I met Paul, Anton brought along a folder with him. It was full of pictures of commercial properties for sale, I think. It didn’t say that, but it had something with ‘MLS’ written along the top.”

  “How many properties?”

  “At least a dozen. They didn’t contain much in the way of information, just pictures of the property, an address—the kinds of things I’m guessing you’d find in an online listing. There was one that was different, though. A listing for a house in Ojai.”

  He’d never been there. Ojai was a small city set in a valley in the Topatopa Mountains, a tourist hub for people who were into art galleries and New Age bullshit shops and spas where you got rubbed down with lava stones and given coffee enemas.

  “Why I remembered it,” Faye said, “is because Anton wrote on the paper. It said, ‘Chauncey Harrington, seventy-two, eighty-seven point six mil, paper.’ That name mean anything to you?”

  It didn’t. Sebastian grabbed the Mac, balanced it on his lap, and plugged “Chauncey Harrington” into Google.

  The guy didn’t have his own Wikipedia page, but there had been several stories about him over the years, mainly about his paper empire, which he had sold ten years ago for close to ninety million dollars. The most recent story had included Harrington’s age: seventy-two.

  Sebastian shared his findings.

  Faye said, “Candice Jackson mentioned Ojai—remember?”

  “Right, but then she said she was sure it was Santa Paula.”

  “She also said she was really messed up, didn’t remember much. And remember, Anton was thinking about going into business with Paul. What if Paul told him the name of his investor? If he did, Anton would have checked the guy out.”

  Sebastian thought about Paul’s last phone call, Paul telling him he didn’t want the money anymore. Had Paul found his angel investor?

  “This guy may know where Paul is,” Faye said. “We should talk to him.”

  “Got to find out where he lives first.”

  “I know the address.” Faye gave it to him.

  “You always memorize random addresses?”

  “It was the only residential property Anton had in that stack, which is why I remember it. That and the writing.”

  Was she telling him the truth? After her Academy Award–winning performance with Candice Jackson, he wasn’t sure he trusted her.

  But he needed her for this.

  “I think we should go to Ojai first,” she said, “follow up on that lead.”

  Sebastian decided to play along. “Why’s that?”

  “It just . . . feels right.”

  “Ojai is further northwest. Hold on a sec—I’m reading something here. . . . Okay, it says Ojai has been without power for the past two days. Electric company shut it down as a preemptive measure against the winds.” Some of the worst wildfires in the state’s history had been caused when the high Santa Ana winds either blew trees and branches into power lines, sparking fires, or snapped distribution poles and sent live wires onto the dry grass nearby.

  “Santa Paula,” Sebastian said, “still has power.”

  Faye said nothing, locked in thought, her face blank.

  What if Paul is in Ojai—with Grace?

  What if he’s already moved his carriers somewhere else?

  What if he’s in the process of moving them not from Santa Paula but from Ojai?

  What if, what if, what if—the words thrumming through his head and hammering his heart, Sebastian wanting to scream at Faye to slam her foot on the gas and barrel through the goddamn traffic.

  CHAPTER 46

  WHEN GRACE’S EYES fluttered open, she found herself tucked underneath a down comforter. She felt warm all over—and clean. She smelled of soap but had no memory of taking a shower or a bath.

  What she did have was a vague memory of talking to the big-muscled guy who had introduced himself as Paul. She couldn’t recall any of the details of their conversation, but she had the sense he had been kind to her. Or was she imagining that?

  She brushed the comforter away from her face, found herself no longer lying on a mattress dumped on a dingy carpet with a bucket to use for her bathroom needs. She had been transferred to a new room—a small one, no bigger than a prison cell (not that she’d ever spent any time in one). The walls were bare, a pristine white, and smelled vaguely of paint. The wall across from the foot of her bed (no, not a bed, she noticed—it was a cot) wasn’t a wall at all but a pane of glass that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  No, not glass, she thought dully. You didn’t use glass inside a prison cell, which was exactly where she found herself. Only this one had a stone floor and a barrier made of what had to be plexiglass. That or whatever clear, thick material was used at, say, the teller windows at banks. It made her feel like a specimen in a zoo.

  It was difficult to collect her thoughts. Her brain felt like it had been replaced with glue, everything trapped inside her skull sticky and slow. Okay, she had been moved into this place—this prison cell. Okay. Right. So why am I not frightened? Why am I feeling so . . . content? No, that wasn’t the right word. She knew she’d been taken, knew she was a prisoner, and yet she felt like her brain had been rewired, circuits fried, or something, because while she knew she should have felt worried, even panick
ed, she felt the complete opposite, her body telling her, Hey, everything’s okay. Life isn’t all that bad, so chill.

  And her clothes were different. Her nightclub clothes were gone, replaced with a black cocktail dress. She sat up and saw that she was barefoot. Her fingernails, she noticed, had been painted a lovely shade of red. She brought her hand up closer to her face.

  “I hope I did a good job.”

  Grace jumped at the voice. It came from above her. She glanced up, saw the speaker, then from the corner of her eye caught someone standing in front of the plexiglass barrier—Paul.

  “You look beautiful,” Paul said. He wore a dark suit with a blue shirt and a nice tie, and looked like some smart Wall Street banker type with his glasses, smiling like he had scored big on an investment. “Do you feel beautiful?”

  She did, actually. She knew she shouldn’t be feeling that, given the circumstances, but strangely, she did. Why? How? Had she been given some drug while she was sleeping? What’s going on here?

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I can’t hear you. You need to use the intercom. It’s behind you there, on the back wall.”

  She turned her head, to the wall behind her. She saw the small intercom. It was to the left of the outline of a door. But no doorknob, she noticed. She couldn’t open it, but someone on the outside could.

  It was hard to stand—not because of pain but because she felt so light-headed. Not in a dizzy way but in that free-floating way when you had a super-good buzz and you just wanted to sit and ride a wave of euphoric feelings. Her legs felt a little wobbly, though, and she leaned against the wall as she pressed her finger on the little square green button installed underneath the speaker.

  “You don’t have to keep your finger on it,” Paul said. “Just click it once.”

  “Did you put this dress on me?”

  “I did.”

  “And my nails?”

  “I did those, too.”

  “Did I . . . Was I in a shower?”

  “A bath,” he said. “I cleaned you up. I want you looking all nice and pretty.”

  “I feel different. Like, floaty.”

  “I gave you molly. Have you tried it before?”

  Grace shook her head back and forth. She knew about MDMA, of course, from friends who took it at rave and EDM concerts and at clubs because it made the music sound better, made them feel so tremendously awesome and uninhibited and free to express themselves, their hidden desires.

  “It will help keep you nice and relaxed,” Paul said. “Calm.”

  “Calm? For what?”

  Paul didn’t answer. He pressed something on the wall—a button for his intercom, she guessed—and then turned around, his back now facing her. He took a few steps forward, stopped. Grace stumbled forward, using the wall for support.

  The man standing next to Paul was much older—and much shorter. And frail looking. Or maybe she thought that because he was so thin underneath his suit. The wisps of white hair were combed back wetly across a scalp peppered with what looked like age or liver spots.

  “Mr. Jahed has arrived,” the man said.

  “Wonderful. How’s the generator?”

  “We’ll have power for another two to three hours, but you need to make this quick.”

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Will you stop worrying about the wildfires? Everything’s fine.”

  Grace wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. Her face pressed against the cool, thick plexiglass, she looked to her right, at two small cells that were identical to the one she was in. Unlike her, the women inside—one to each room—wore what looked like hospital scrubs and were sleeping, or passed out, on their cots.

  Carriers, Grace thought. Like me.

  “My dear boy,” the man said to Paul. “I grew up surrounded by wildfires. They’re dangerously unpredictable, nothing to be trifled with.”

  Grace looked to her left, saw two more cells, but couldn’t see if anyone was inside them.

  Is this a blood farm?

  “The wildfire is contained,” Paul said. “Relax.”

  “The fire has damaged the town’s water system, so the firefighters can no longer use the hydrants. Mr. Jahed doesn’t know this, but nonetheless, he’s spooked. On the way here, he and his entourage saw home sprinklers running, saw more than one person standing on their roofs with hoses. The embers can travel for miles, you know—and there are reports of monstrous winds moving in. Mr. Jahed heard that tidbit on the radio. That and chatter about a mandatory evacuation possibly happening in the next couple of hours.”

  Am I trapped in a blood farm?

  Are they going to drain me?

  “The presentation won’t take long,” Paul said.

  “Good. He’s very anxious to see the results. How is his mistress?”

  “Can you stop talking like someone out of an old movie? His side piece of ass is doing just fine—wonderful, in fact.”

  “I hope so, for both our sakes. I’d hate to be victims of a qisas.”

  “A what?”

  “The Islamic term for revenge. An eye-for-an-eye retribution.”

  Why did he clean me up? Put this dress on me?

  “I’ll remind you again not to speak crudely in front of him,” the old man said. “Miss Sawyer is a very important person in his life.”

  “I’m sure.” Paul grinned. “He does understand that we’re not in Tehran, right? That needs to be presented a certain way.”

  “Yes, he understands.”

  “And his men—”

  “They’ll stay upstairs. Now, what about side effects?”

  “Just the ones we discussed,” Paul said.

  Grace felt a bolt of panic. It swiftly died, buried underneath the molly. Her thoughts, however, were running rampant, like they’d caught fire. I’m trapped in here they’re going to take my blood but for how long oh my God help me I’m never leaving this place alive—

  “I’d like to see her beforehand,” the old man said, “to make sure—”

  “Enough. Everything is fine. And look a bit more excited, will you? You’re going to be a very wealthy man.”

  “I’m already a very wealthy man.”

  “Then you’re about to be an immortal one.”

  “I hope your claim about your blood having the same wonderful transformative effects of Pandora turns out to be correct.”

  “The results are impressive. Mr. Jahed is going to be blown away. You, too.”

  “I hope so. This little showroom you insisted on having me build cost me a rather pretty penny.” The old man sighed, looked around the cells, his gaze drifting past Grace as though he didn’t see her. “My poor wine cellar,” he said.

  “Go collect Mr. Jahed. I’ll have Bradley collect his . . . concubine. Is that an appropriate word?”

  The old man made a face—not at the word concubine, Grace thought, but at the person named Bradley.

  “After this is over, we’re leaving,” the old man said to Paul, “you and I, to celebrate properly. Alone. Mr. Guidry won’t be joining us this time.”

  The old man walked away. Paul turned back to Grace, his smile at full wattage.

  “There are some shoes under your cot, a pair of nice heels. Would you mind putting them on for me?”

  “Why?” Christ, it was hard to think. “Why am I all dressed up?”

  “To celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “You,” Paul replied. “We’re here to celebrate you, how special you are. You’re the belle of the ball, Grace. Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

  CHAPTER 47

  ELLIE GLANCED AT the dashboard GPS. It said they were five minutes from the Santa Paula address.

  “How are you going to play it when we get there?” Ellie asked. “You still haven’t explained that to me.�
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  “I told you, I’ll talk to Dixon until he gives Paul up.”

  “Then why’d you pack the trunk with all that firepower?”

  “You ever fire an AR-15?”

  “No,” Ellie replied, although she had, several times. The AR was the weapon you wanted if you went to war.

  “Person sees a weapon like that,” Sebastian said, “they suddenly become more eager to cooperate.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll offer him incentives.” His eyes cut sideways to hers, and he added, “Don’t worry—you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

  “I’m worried about how many people might be there.”

  “We’ll find out any minute now, won’t we?”

  The house in Santa Paula was one of those sprawling modern things designed to look like country homes. It was isolated, as Candice had said, nothing around for miles.

  Except the wildfires, Ellie thought.

  The mountains and hills in the far distance looked black under the bloodred sky. Some surfaces glowed red and orange from burning embers. The air inside the Range Rover was breathable, but even with the air-conditioning’s filters she could smell woodsmoke and burnt vegetation.

  Sebastian had her park on a hilly dirt road overlooking the house. He studied the house, using a pair of military-grade binoculars equipped with both night vision and thermal imaging.

  “I don’t see any other vehicles here,” he said. “Or any heat signatures.”

  “What about the garage?”

  “Let’s go check it out. And let’s use this.” Sebastian removed a compact Glock from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “I’ll take the lead on this. Just watch my back.”

  They parked in the driveway, in front of the garage, and looked through one of the windows. Ellie saw a single car parked in there—a vintage Shelby Mustang.

  An evacuation sticker had been placed on the front door, to let firefighters and responders know that no people were inside. Which, she thought, was odd. During the drive, Sebastian had kept checking a state-run website that offered real-time wildfire updates—well, at least until the unstable cell signal eventually dropped. He told her that Santa Paula was in the clear.