by Mike Baron
“I don’t know how long this will take--I might be up there the whole week.”
“That’s fine. There’s always someone here. Good luck.”
Otto took the interstate to Baseline and turned west toward Boulder. From Boulder, he took 36 north and west through Lyons winding up through the mountains to Estes Park. It was cooler in the mountains. Topping a rise, Otto saw Estes spread out before him, a gleaming little valley with a lake and a golf course in the middle, snow-capped peaks all around. The Stanley Hotel was immediately apparent at twelve o’clock, the wedding cake on the town’s crowded lace.
Otto paid five bucks to park the big Denali behind the hotel. He was early so he took a self-guided tour. The Stanley wasn’t that big. It was built by Freelan Stanley, co-inventor of the Stanley Steamer automobile, and its greatest claim to fame was having served as the inspiration for horror writer Stephen King’s The Shining. Otto meandered through the leather and brass-hued bar, paused at the broad display of King memorabilia just off the lobby, went out front onto the broad veranda from which he had an excellent view of the Rockies including Long’s Peak.
Otto watched children cavort in the swimming pool that looked out over the town. He sat in a white Adirondack chair. A black Infiniti SUV prowled up the hill heading for the parking lot. Otto relaxed in the warm sun, giving them time to park the car and enter. He got up and sauntered into the lobby. He did not have long to wait.
Two men appeared from the corridor leading to the bar and walked toward him. Winner was a trim five-ten with the confident gait of a movie star, thick, close-cropped hair. Ralston Goldfarb rolled like a sailor on thick thighs. He wore a purple and green Hawaiian shirt over creased white slacks, a straw hat and dark shades. A hefty gold chain dangled on his hairy chest and a cigar jutted from his black beard. A ruby the size of a hummingbird egg clung to a massive gold ring on his right hand. He looked like a narco-gangster.
Winner also wore sunglasses. He smiled and extended his hand. “White?”
Otto shook Winner’s hand. “Thanks for coming. You too, Mr. Goldfarb.”
“Call me Ralston,” the agent growled giving Otto the old crusheroo. The back of Goldfarb’s hands were covered with black hair. He wore a gold diamond ring the size of a lug nut on his left hand. “Let’s eat.”
Otto followed them back the way they’d come, through the restaurant out onto the patio behind the hotel. A waiter led them to a white-cloth draped table beneath a Bacardi umbrella in the shadow of the mountains.
There were perhaps a dozen other diners on the patio. Nobody gave Winner a tumble. The waiter took their drink orders and went inside.
“I really appreciate this, gentlemen,” Otto said.
Winner waved a hand. “Not a problem.”
Goldfarb twirled his cigar over a blue flame from a gold Dunhill. “In life, timing is everything, Otto. I had been planning to attend this conclave anyway and the boy here gets a week off from shooting while they find a new leading lady.”
“What happened to the first one?” Otto found himself asking.
“She claims she has food poisoning. What she’s really got is a psycho boyfriend telling her this movie is a career killer.”
“Be kind, Ralston,” Winner said.
“Kind my ass. That bitch has already cost the production 200 grand just fucking around with the lighting. This is the best part she’s had in years.” Goldfarb pointed his stogie at Otto. “You’re a G-man, huh? Mind if I see some ID?”
Bemused, Otto removed his badge holder, flipped it open and handed it to Goldfarb who took it and examined it like a jeweler. “So what’s this all about, Elliot Ness? The last time the Feds asked for my help was never.”
Otto looked at Winner. “What did Stella tell you?”
“She said you were investigating her father’s death. That’s it.”
“That’s right,” Otto said.
Goldfarb stared at him, the stogie once more lodged between his thick lips. “That’s all you’re gonna say? What’s it got to do with the Grove? This is my fifth trip, by the way. The Grove is invitation only. Every camper must receive a unanimous vote from the board of directors. Every camper is entitled to bring one guest. When Gabe asked if he could bring a guest I about shit my pants. You stir up any kind of ruckus there, or cause me any embarrassment whatsoever and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
“I assure you,” Otto said, “I’m the soul of discretion. I’m here to observe.”
“Don’t go ‘round asking any questions. They caught a reporter once sneakin’ around the mountain. Took his clothes and boots and sent him bare-ass back down the mountain. These are not people you want to piss off.”
“I understand, Ralston.”
Goldfarb grinned. He had a gold tooth. “I like you, Otto. You’re a no-bullshit kinda guy. So you’re collaborating with this schmendrick on the screenplay to Detonator 4.”
“That’s our story,” Winner said.
“And why not. He could hardly do worse than what’s-his-name, the Oscar winner. Oscar my rosy red patootie! Where’s the waiter? I could eat a buffalo.”
***
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Fried”
Sunday night.
Over crab cakes and antelope steaks, Goldfarb regaled them with scurrilous anecdotes about the rich and famous. Otto waited until Goldfarb had downed his third bourbon.
“So Ralston. What do you do up there all week?”
Goldfarb looked around for the waiter, who was right there. He ordered another drink. “Whoa--the whole week? No way. I have to be back on Wednesday. They have activities, a lot of discussion panels. Last time it was sustainable this and sustainable that. Pedestrian friendly communities. Like Brussels. These geniuses, these schmendricks, always trying to be the smartest person in the room. Always telling us how to live. I’m going to give up my four acre estate in Santa Rosa, my Mercedes SLS to live in a condo and walk to the butcher shop?! My ancestors would crawl from their graves and poke my eyes out with their finger bones.”
“What’s your impression of Witherspoon?”
“Emil’s one cool customer. Mr. Everything’s Under Control. One year Harry What’s His Name, the linoleum prince, had a heart attack. Emil’s got an ambulance and EMT team there in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! In the fucking mountains!”
“Guy’s got no wife, no kids, no girlfriends, what’s up with that?”
Goldfarb shrugged and picked at his dessert. “You could say the same thing about Jodie Foster. Doesn’t mean he’s queer…”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Goldfarb and Winner simultaneously recited.
“Hobbies? Interests?”
“Emil’s an avid hunter. Several of the trophies are his. A fucking moose for Chrissake. All shot on the grounds.”
“You hunt?”
“Can you see me in my camo outfit crouching in a duck blind at four a.m? Neither can I. But a lot of guests do hunt. The lodge even provides guns.”
“How many guns do they have?”
Goldfarb stared into his bourbon. He sipped. Winner laid back still as a fawn taking it all in.
“Well there are two gun cabinets in the great room and each has at least a half dozen rifles and shotguns. Nobody hunts with a pistol although I suppose you could…”
“A Desert Eagle .50 will stop a grizzly bear,” Winner said.
Otto took out his little spiral pad and made notes.
“Good to know, Gabe,” Goldfarb said. “Good to know. The staff have pistols although you don’t generally see them.”
“All of them?” Otto said.
“I don’t know, but I’ve seen Bob Casey carrying a pistol. He’s head of security.”
“What’s he like?”
“Bob? Quiet professional. Movie buff. I’m pretty sure Casey was positive on Gabe’s invite. They’re not gonna invite some meshuga asshole like Sean Penn. We brought Detonator DVDs for everybody. Want a set?”
“Sure.”
“Seen any of Gabe’s movies?”
“I caught Detonator a couple years ago. Good movie.”
Goldfarb nodded in satisfaction as he removed a gold-foil wrapped cigar from his breast pocket. “What else you want to know? The food’s terrific. They got a French chef. Jean-Marc--been there for years. Studied at the Sorbonne.”
“What does that even mean, Ralston?” Winner said. “What is the Sorbonne and where is it?”
“Fuck if I know. The food’s good.”
“What can we expect when we arrive?” Otto said.
“First night is a big megillah. Big ceremony down by the lake.”
“Walk me through it. We drive up to the lodge. Who’s the first person we see?”
“Emil or Bob, probably. Emil likes to greet each visitor, especially newcomers. He’ll come out front. Staff will take your bags to your cabin. You go into the main lobby and sign in at the desk. You pose with a stuffed bear shot by Teddy Roosevelt. They usually have the evening’s events posted on a bulletin board.
“Emil will assign you a cabin and staff will take you there in a golf cart. You’re pretty much on your own until dinner. First night’s always barbecue on the veranda overlooking the lake. After coffee, everybody gathers on the great lawn for the convocation and the evening’s ‘impromptus.’“
“‘Impromptus.’ What are those?”
“Emil hands you the club and it’s your turn to speak.”
“What club?” Otto said.
“I forgot about the club,” Goldfarb said. “It’s like an Indian thing. Whoever holds the war club has the floor. Emil appears in a full Cheyenne war bonnet. We drink the blood of the white man. Hell, I’m always glad to do that!”
“Okay, so Emil hands you the club.”
“I get up there, there’s a podium, and I give ‘em my sure-fire plan to rule the world. Whatever you want to talk about. Me, I do enough talking. Last time I was up Richard Branson talked about commercial space flight. Some other guy talked about urban farming. Sustainable this and sustainable that…”
Goldfarb ran out of words, his mouth slightly open, his gaze unfocused. Winner leaned forward and moved his hand up and down six inches from the agent’s face. “Ralston’s fried. Help me get him to his room.”
***
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“Kagemusha”
Sunday night.
Hornbuckle stretched in his Barcalounger waiting for the call to go through. The gash in his ankle had prevented him from working out and he was bored and frustrated. His attempts to track the source of the cyber-attack had led nowhere. Whoever was behind it--and Hornbuckle was convinced it was Black Widow--was two steps ahead of him.
His APB on Kleiser had produced zip and he was too new to Denver to have developed a network of informants. He suspected that cyber-cafes who had received the APB were either ignoring it or telling Kleiser.
They’d never met but Hornbuckle knew Kleiser was aware of him. He’d made his presence felt. Two months ago, when he’d still been based in Virginia, he’d come this close to nailing Black Widow but by the time the local feds had obtained a search warrant for the artists’ collective housing the server, the spider had moved on.
Hornbuckle listened to clicks and beeps through his headset. Secure lines had their drawbacks. His gaze fell on the photo on the wall, the one with him and his older brother Pete, shirtless, tanned, lithe bodies by the lake, arm in arm. Hornbuckle had worshiped Pete. Pete had been an Army sergeant. He’d died during Desert Storm. The Army posthumously awarded him a bronze star. Now they were trying to jew his widow Deborah out of her pension benefits.
God love ya, bro. Wish you were here.
The ear unit snapped and the weirdly transmogrified voice of control entered Hornbuckle’s skull, dry as the Serengeti. “What’s happening.”
“White’s up at Pawnee Grove.”
“Do you think there’s anything there?”
“It’s a connection we hadn’t noticed but as for this thing being developed and deployed from there I don’t believe it. It’s contrary to what they stand for. The whole thing’s a red-herring.”
Hornbuckle listened to Control thinking, which came across as a series of light crackles.
“Have you seen the spectrographic charts?”
“No. I didn’t even know there were any.”
“Mmm. There appears to be a lot of unusual electro-magnetic activity up there.
There are rumors they’ve got a Cray up there.”
“Cray can account for every unit.”
“Or worse--not a Cray. Something we don’t know about.”
“You’d never know it from their electric bills.”
“We got the autopsy report from New Mexico. Froines’ remains contained the same unknown element as Senator Darling’s.”
“Can you send that to me?”
“It’s there. What about Kleiser?”
“I’m closing in on him,” he lied.
“You have one week. We ran an extrapolation. If the immolations continue at the present rate, they will become self-evident and we’ll suffer a worldwide panic. Millions will die. Apocalyptics are already citing them.”
Hornbuckle clenched his jaw and sucked air in through his teeth. “Okay.”
The line went dead.
Hornbuckle’s heart pounded. Why did talking to Control exact such a toll? It was simply an electronically-altered voice. He brought the chair to full upright and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes seeing an Escher-like world of Mobius stairs and moiré patterns.
Finally, there were no options left save Farouk.
***
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Arrival”
Sunday night and Monday morning.
Goldfarb had reserved a room for Otto.
Otto opened his laptop. The icon for his home surveillance unit was blinking. Otto downloaded the file. Through the tiny camera concealed in the headlight of his model monster truck, he observed Hornbuckle enter his home and look around, including the extreme close-up when Hornbuckle admired the model.
Otto smiled grimly. He composed a short note and forwarded the file to Margaret Yee. He took a shower and hit the sheets.
Otto dreamt he was back in the palace, Malik approaching smiling beatifically surrounded by a heavenly nimbus, holding out his hand. The hand of Brotherhood. The hand of Peace. But his other hand was behind his back and Otto was terrified of what it held.
Malik came closer and closer until his perfect grin seemed to fill Otto’s vision. He burst into flames.
For an instant Otto felt an overwhelming rush of heat. His skin melted like wax and the fat crackled.
He woke up. It was too warm in the room. He got out of bed and opened the window admitting cold mountain air. It took him a long time to fall back to sleep.
Otto woke at seven--late for him--feeling exhausted. Putting on sweats, he went for a long loping run down the road to a shopping mall, through the mall and back up. His room phone was blinking when he returned. Winner had left a message to meet them for breakfast at ten. They met outside at the Cascades where the morning sun had breached the mountain and was rapidly warming up.
Winner was already seated, wearing white shorts, a polo shirt and sunglasses, a copy of the Denver Post and what looked like a script in front of him. The headline was about the burnings. As Otto sat, a young waitress with a Scandinavian accent came over with a fresh pot of coffee. Otto nodded enthusiastically as she poured. Winner waited until Otto had doctored his coffee and taken his first sip.
“I talked to Stella last night,” Winner said. “She sends her love.”
Otto grunted and studied the menu.
Goldfarb appeared in a purple and yellow Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and Birkenstocks wearing sunglasses, an unlit cigar jutting from his jaw like the 20 mm cannon on the USS Ticonderoga, designer bag slung over one shoulder. He pulled out a cast iron chair with a nerve-scraping sound and ploppe
d down. The waitress appeared immediately to pour coffee.
“Whassup, boys? Everybody sleep all right?”
Otto grunted in assent.
“Said on the news this morning there’s a big fire in Aspen.”
Otto looked up sharply, reached for his laptop. “Do you know where in Aspen?”
“Yeah. At the Institute. Probably some nut doesn’t like their position papers.”
Otto wrote a note to cross-check Aspen Institute guests that week with those who had visited Pawnee Grove. They ordered, they ate, Goldfarb picked up the bill. Otto reminded him to forward his hotel room receipts for reimbursement. They agreed to meet in the lobby for a noon departure.
Otto returned to his room and began cross-checking Aspen Institute guests who had also visited Pawnee Grove. There were three: a physicist from UCLA Berkeley, an economist from the Freedom Foundation and a playwright. The playwright had been invited to speak at the current Aspen Institute event. It was he, Otto thought, who had burst into flame.
A playwright? If this were terrorism, why attack a playwright? Otto researched the playwright’s works but there was nothing risible.
Internet news was sketchy as authorities did not know whether anyone was in the building when it burst into flame. Simply those three fire departments were battling the flames and there was fear it would spread to the surrounding mountains. When Otto looked up it was time to go.
They checked out as valets brought their cars around. Winner slid into the black Infiniti’s driver’s seat. Goldfarb took shotgun. Otto tipped the valet a buck and got in his Denali. The two big black vehicles looked like a diplomatic convey as they wound away from the Stanley and headed north on Devil’s Gulch Road toward Glen Haven. The road curved around exclusive condos and resorts, free-form log cabins on odd lots and pink granite boulders. Several miles out of town they came to Pawnee Grove Drive, a shut gate and a gentleman in a blue blazer and sunglasses lounging against the front fender of a forest green Jeep Cherokee. “Pawnee Grove” appeared in gold letters on the hood.
The smiling watchman approached Winner. They talked, Goldfarb leaning to fork over a letter and pointing to Otto behind them. The man examined the letter, had a brief conversation. Goldfarb retrieved a box from his luggage, Winner signed it and handed it to the watchman.