“No…I’m thinking something different, Stacy. Thanks again,” he rushed then ended the call.
Pat rushed into the apartment as soon as Denny opened the door and went straight to Ian’s bedroom. There, on the nightstand was the phone. He picked it up and pressed the power button, bringing up the lock screen. “You don’t happen to know his passcode, do you?”
“7783.”
Pat sat on the edge of the thick bed, nearly sliding off the silk duvet. After punching in the passcode, he saw a long number of missed calls, mostly Denny, early on before he’d realized the phone was still in the apartment. There were a few from other numbers, some with contact names, but mostly without them. “I’ll send these numbers to Stacy to see who they belong to.”
“Remember, he hooks up a lot. Those could all be just random guys.”
For some reason, that didn’t sit well with Pat. He didn’t want to hear about the men Ian was seeing, which was crazy, being he could be with one that very moment. Then he saw the Grindr app, like he, himself, had, and it irked him more, not even trying to look at the messages there. “I’ll have Stacy sort it out. Until then, is there anything in here that I should look for or avoid? I don’t want to pry more than I have to.”
“What did his father say?”
“Nothing, like we expected. I had the feeling he knew where Ian was, though, but I’m guessing that Ian is possibly gone, on purpose, and didn’t want his father to know where. There’s something bugging me about all this, but I don’t have enough pieces of the puzzle to figure it out yet.”
“I feel you. It’s weird.”
Pat caught his eye and vowed, “I’ll find him. I have the time; I have the resources. I won’t stop until I figure this out.”
“And what if you can’t? What if he’s already…?”
Pat wouldn’t allow him to finish that thought. “He’s not. I know it’s not science, but a lot of us in law enforcement get a gut feeling on things. My gut tells me he’s alive, but he needs help in some way.”
“I kind of feel that too. I guess I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Sometimes hope is all we have, Denny. Don’t lose it.”
The rest of Ian’s phone was much like he thought it would contain. Pictures on Instagram, random tweets on Twitter, posts on Facebook. All the social media apps were accounted for, and there was nothing unusual in any of them.
Messages were sometimes mundane, others sexual in nature, but again, nothing too out of the ordinary. He forced himself to look at the Grindr app and found nothing more recent than a week before the trip with his father.
There were no notes taken or journals, nothing of any consequence. There were the incoming messages and missed incoming calls from the time Ian was gone with his father, and no outgoing calls or messages, like Stacy had said. It was becoming stranger by the minute.
He left the phone on the solid oak nightstand and stood, alone in the dim room of the missing man.
There were art prints on the walls of the greats like Monet, and Picasso, and then there were two huge corkboards with cut out pictures and printed ones of homes tacked to it. Pat went there, running a finger over some of the pictures of older homes. There was no drafting table in the room, like he’d expected there to be. After all, Ian was an architecture major, but he did have a computer, and above the desk were where the corkboards were located. Pat sat in the desk chair, imagining Ian there, looking for homes on the internet, homes he wanted to help build. Being from New York, Pat had loved the older buildings, the detail and obvious care that had been put into the building of them. The bridges, fountains, arches, all were pieces of art.
That was it. Ian was an artist.
More than ever, Pat wanted to read his thoughts. He wanted to know the man better, the man who liked BDSM and yet sees the beauty of an old building that most never notice. How many passed through the doors, getting into the building to do their banking or meetings with lawyers or whatever business they had, ignoring the place itself? He was guilty of that, like anyone else. Anyone except Ian, who was one of the special few who saw it.
His eyes took in what most walked by without a glance. Attention to detail investigators were famous for, but he guessed few could tell anyone the style of the building they were inside of or the type of stone, age of the wood.
Picturing Ian doing that, running his long fingers over the wood, admiring the smell of it, wondering over the history. To walk on the boards that made up floors that people a hundred years before him had stepped on first, walking exactly in their footsteps.
Flipping on his computer, Pat felt like he was intruding into a person’s life, but that was essentially his job. There were countless lives he’d looked deeply into, combing through things that they thought were hidden by the years that passed.
Ian was different. He’d placed his life in the open, or it seemed that way. Chronicling things on social media, leaving his dream right there on the corkboards. Denny knew of his sexual preference of BDSM, and that was one thing most kept secret, even from their closest friends.
In the computer, which had no password, he found much of the same. There were no folders that were hidden, no pictures that weren’t placed on his social media accounts, except for one folder of things that none of his Facebooks friends saw.
One folder had porn, but nothing dangerous or illegal. Pictures he’d saved from websites and search engines, of leather-bound men, tied to St. Andrew’s crosses and across benches. Others of the Doms that controlled them, floggers in hand, sadistic grins or piercing eyes.
Pat smiled as he filed through them. All the things he was familiar with, and he, himself had dabbled in, and loved.
Closing the folder, he took one more look around the others and then pulled up the internet search engine. There was nothing saved on the home page, so he perused the bookmarks. Again, little except sites that were about design and architecture.
Then, he looked into the history, and that was where he got his first real surprise, and clue. The last four searches all had to do with something called the Gilded Grail. Some of the searches included the words and phrases like ‘secret society’, ‘fraternity’, ‘secret order’ and the like.
Being on the cult taskforce for nearly two years, Pat had learned about a lot of orders such as the Free Masons, Illuminati, and Skull and Bones. There were many that were as old as the written word, and some as new as the last century. The Gilded Grail was one he’d read in the long lists, but that was about it. The name. There was very little information about it, and most experts assumed it had died off somewhere along the eighteenth century.
For someone who was simply interested in a kinky form of sex and architecture, having Ian look for a secret society few had ever heard of had Pat wondering. Sure, he minored in history, but secret societies other than the Masons had very little historical reference. There were many presidents and statemen who were in various societies, but other than that, they had little impact on history as Pat knew it.
Pat retraced his steps on the search he’d gone on, only to come up as empty as Ian probably had. There was nothing about them, one reference in a college doctorial paper that was online, but it was simply there in a list with the others.
“Jesus. Why the hell were you looking for information on them, Ian?”
He put a call in to Stacy. “Did you get the email?”
“Sorry, honey, I haven’t gotten a chance to look yet. I do have something I need you to do some research on for me, though.”
“Sure, shoot.”
“Look up the Gilded Grail. It’s a secret society like the Free Masons and such.”
“Jesus, why that?”
Pat shook his head and answered her with a low voice. “I’m not sure, but if he’s caught up in it, that might be why he’s missing.”
“Pat…the Masons and stuff, from what I know, they do a bunch of wackadoodle stuff, think they hold the secrets to the universe and generally hang out to drink a f
ew beers away from the wives. So, what, if he’s in it?”
“Not all are so innocuous. The Skull and Bones, for example, have members that climb their way to top positions in government and civilian agencies and have control over things that millions of people count on to survive. I’ve studied on secret societies since I was placed to investigate cults, and many are run like that, but worse. They are far-reaching. Possible that some are even dangerous.”
“Still, many aren’t. Don’t worry yourself into a coma until we know for sure he’s even in it. Let me do some digging after the girls go down for a nap. Steve and Matt are itching to help too, so I’ll get them on it until I can do my magic.”
“Thanks, Stacy.”
“You’re welcome.”
When he went back into the living room, Denny was flipping channels on the huge flat screen television. “Ian’s?”
“Yeah. I had a thirty-two inch when he moved in and he laughed at it like I was watching some old box TV. He got on his phone and ordered it, and it was delivered in an hour. He was pissed it took so long.”
Pat sat next to him as Denny flipped the power off, trying to think of how to ask. “What’s up, Agent?”
“Call me Pat, please. Has Ian ever mentioned secret societies to you? Did he have a general interest in them, or one of the buildings he was focused on, could it have housed one?”
Denny shook his head while his eyes moved over the room. “Nah. Not that I can think of, anyway.” When he turned his eyes back to Pat, he asked, “Why?”
“Well, he was searching information on one on the internet. Could his father or other family be involved in one?”
“Like what? Go to those weird meetings and wear fucked up hats? I doubt it. You’ve met the dude. Did he seem the type for all that?”
That was the thing, he did. There were secret societies that had nothing but rich members. “I can’t say one way or the other right now.”
As his eyes moved around the room, Pat saw the pictures on the shelves, all of Ian, Denny, their friends and some family. None of Ian’s family, of course, but Pat recognized one picture with Ian, Denny and Leo Glover, Denny’s cousin.
The pictures with Ian alone, or with people Pat didn’t recognize, they were set in all different places. One was in front of the Eiffel Tower, another in front of the Coliseum in Rome. There were two with Denny on top of a snowy mountain, ski jackets and hats on as they had their arms slung over one another’s shoulder.
There was one, however, where Ian didn’t wear the brilliant smile he wore in the others. This one was a dreamy grin, and he was alone in it. It was obviously a selfie, with the way Ian’s arm was extended, and in the background was a rough log structure, like an old-time cabin.
He got up from the couch and headed over to the picture, snatching it from the shelf. “Where was this taken?”
“Oh, that? Some cabin that sits on a piece of their property west of Aspen. He took me there once, but…he said it…was his…secret spot.” As he explained, his words grew halting, and he stood too, grabbing the picture from Pat. “Jesus Christ, I never thought of it. This is where he is! I’d bet my left arm!”
“No need to go to that extreme. You said he took you there once?”
“Yeah, yeah, it was a couple years ago. We were always tight, you know, but we got this apartment together after graduation when we decided to do our graduate studies here. He convinced me too, telling me he’d pay for my classes if he had to. I was…you know, his only real friend. A lot of people just hung out with him because he threw around money all the time.”
In Pat’s chest, his heart gave a heavy thump. “I can imagine.”
“He said he’d never told anyone about the place. He wasn’t sure his own father knew about it, being that the property was huge, like a thousand acres or something. They never much left the main house, but there were a bunch of out buildings, a little house on a bridge over a stream that Ian really loved and wanted to renovate one day. And then, there’s this place.”
“Can you remember how to get there?”
“I think so. It’s a long drive, and the dirt roads, shit, there are a ton, so I could just get us lost.”
“Better lost than not trying to find him. Let’s go.”
Chapter Four
Always biased that New York state was the most beautiful in the country, Pat was blown away at the Rocky Mountains, and the beauty they held. It was more rugged than New York, he thought, amused. That was the only way he could think to describe it. The name fitting them, huge boulders and rock cliffs made up much of the terrain, the trees, though plentiful were spaced differently than the east coast. They had more room to breathe, to grow.
The air was so crisp, he could almost forget how little oxygen he was taking in, comparatively speaking, that was, from New York and DC. Maybe that was what John Denver was talking about, the lack of oxygen making a person feel high. With his adrenaline pumping as they drove, waiting to hopefully and finally meet the elusive Ian Andrews III, he gripped the wheel hard, eyes darting everywhere as his mind rolled in circles, trying to make sense of what he’d learned so far.
The roads were mostly dirt where they traveled, and the few paved roads were narrow, but there was no one on the road with them once they hit the property itself. Pat thought Denny was likely right, and the rich and powerful owner had no idea of the amazing place he owned.
After five missed turns, and Denny nearly in tears, they found their way to the cabin. Pat had left his phone behind, and asked Denny to do the same. He didn’t know if it was necessary, but if Ian had done it in some state of paranoia, he would see theirs and retract further.
The driveway to the cabin was overgrown with brush and was hard to maneuver, but Pat managed, hoping he didn’t hit a rock and rough up the undercarriage of the rental. When they pulled to the front of it, he stared out of the passenger window, watching for movement. Seeing none, his heart sank.
“He may not be in there, Denny. We have to be prepared for that.”
“I don’t see his car. It could be around back.”
His voice was cracking, and Pat decided to be the one to go inside, that way if the place was empty, Denny wouldn’t have to see it.
It was rough, broken steps leading up to a sagging square porch. Two steps in, the wood creaked under his shoe and he stopped, worried both that Ian would hear and take off out of the back, if that was possible, or he’d fall through and tear up his leg on the splintered wood.
He took one long step where he was right in front of the door, and he checked the knob, felt how loose it was, and knew it couldn’t lock if Ian had wanted it to. Knocking once, he called out, “Ian Andrews? My name is Pat Castaldo, with the FBI! I have your friend, Denny, with me!”
There was no answer, nor was there movement of any kind. He’d been so sure of his theory of Ian being there, but his hopes were dashing quickly. He tried the knob again, but when he tried to push the door open, he found an obstruction, keeping it from opening.
Again, he could barely breathe, thinking it might be Ian, hurt or dead, blocking the door. He pushed once more, but if it was Ian, he didn’t want to injure him, so he stepped quickly around the edges of the porch and jumped down, heading to one of the windows.
Climbing up on the ridge of the cabin, he looked inside, and saw what was blocking the door. It was an old pot-bellied stove. Letting out a breath of pure relief, he stepped down and went around to the back of the cabin, where he saw two more windows, the glass gone long ago. He went to the first and looked in to see a small room, probably the bedroom, and it was empty save for a sleeping bag.
From the next window, he saw much more. There were two collapsible chairs, both with Broncos Football Team logos. There was a cooler against one wall, another sleeping bag on a cot and several empty or nearly empty bottles of vodka on the floor and lid of the cooler.
Against the wall next to the cooler was a lump that was covered in a brown leather jacket. The more his eyes ad
justed to the dim light within the cabin, he saw a tuft of hair on the side of the lump.
He went back around to the car and told Denny through the open window, “He’s there. I’m going to push the door open, but I need you there to keep him calm in case he freaks out that someone is muscling their way inside.”
“Yeah, okay. Fuck! I can’t believe we found him!”
Denny was up the stairs and over the rickety porch before Pat could warn him of the danger, and Pat made his way up more carefully. Pushing the door, he heard the creaking of the rotting wood, hoping the door wouldn’t split before he could push it open.
He just made it, and they squeezed through the open space, Denny rushing over to his friend’s side. “Ian! Ian! Are you okay?”
Pat saw quickly that he was breathing and knew it was the booze that had him in the coma-like sleep. “Get the bottles of water from my trunk,” Pat said, handing him the keys. “He’s likely dehydrated if all he’s done is drink.”
“Be careful with him,” Denny pled as he left the cabin to get the water.
Pat had no intention of being anything except careful. Taking Ian’s face in his hands, he looked over the man, mouth parted to let out shallow breaths that smelled of stale vodka. Even with that, and the dried drool on his cheek, he was the most beautiful man Pat thought he’d ever seen.
“Great, Pat, get a crush on a dude who is drunk on the floor of a rundown cabin. Great job,” he whispered to himself.
Denny was back with the water and Pat asked him to grab a clean shirt from the backpack lying next to Ian. Once he did, Pat poured a little of the water on the shirt and started cleaning Ian’s face, hoping the cool water would help bring him around.
“Ian, come on, wake up. Let us see those eyes.”
Denny was bouncing next to Pat, grabbing at Ian’s hand. “Ian, dude, come on, you never drink like this. I thought you were so proud of holding your liquor.”
33 Degrees of Separation (Legacy) Page 3