That life seemed almost idyllic now, as he cowered in dingy back alleys, jumping at every sound, expecting death at any moment. And now tormented by thoughts of what might have happened to the woman he loved.
He waited the few minutes until four. Finally, his hands shaking, he dialed the number for Rebecca’s cell.
His gut clenched when a deadpan male voice answered.
“Hello, Detective Langer,” the voice said. “Good of you to call.”
“Who is this!” he shouted into the phone. “Where’s Rebecca!”
“You have something we want,” it said. “Now we have something you want. Maybe we can make a trade.”
“Let me talk to her!” Frank yelled.
“We know about your delivery to Sergeant Reid,” the voice said. “If we hear you’ve told anyone else, you know what will happen to her. We’ll be waiting…”
The phone went silent.
“Wait!” he shouted.
He tried to call for another ten minutes but there was no answer. Finally he sat back, his mind swirling with images of Rebecca bound and gagged in the darkness, beaten – or killed on the spot? The warning dispelled that idea. Anyway, his psyche couldn’t accept that possibility.
The message was crystal clear: the Arx wanted him, and Rebecca was the bait to draw him out of hiding. They would have brought her to one of their ‘Strongholds’, and he was pretty sure he knew which one.
They’d be waiting. That didn’t matter.
He started the car and took off.
The Invisible Hand
At the same time a drugged Rebecca was being loaded onto a float plane on Galiano, a truck painted with the logo ‘Reliable Plumbing and Heating’ showed up at Frank Langer’s home in Burnaby, and a pair of workmen wearing coveralls and tool belts walked to his door. One knocked, then stood blocking the view from the street as the other picked the lock. They left the house after about twenty minutes and drove away.
Exactly one hour later, a neighbour reported the smell of gas wafting over from Frank’s home. Emergency crews were called, and the houses in the immediate area were evacuated. Before the crews could act, the telephone inside rang, and the house exploded in a gigantic ball of flame, scorching two neighbouring homes, and showering the entire block with smoking debris. Evidence at the scene indicated that the explosion was caused by a leak in the gas line for the furnace.
On Galiano Island, a fire boat had to be dispatched to deal with an explosion and fire at a cabin on nearby Parker Island.
During lunch hour at the Homicide Squad, when the squad room was almost empty, Harold Chase flashed his credentials and was admitted without question.
He nodded casually to the one or two detectives present who knew him, and brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket as he asked to see Sergeant Reid. Informed that Reid wasn’t there, Chase demanded access to Reid’s office, claiming that Reid was in possession of some documents that were urgently required for a court case. His actions were highly irregular, but his lofty position in the force was enough to convince the detective in charge.
At Reid’s office he dismissed his escort. A few minutes later he had located and opened a small safe hidden in one wall, and found the materials he’d been ordered to remove. Using stolen passwords and security clearances he quickly hunted through Reid’s computer for any copies or any mention of Frank Langer’s accusations. He found nothing. He broke open a locked drawer of Reid’s desk, removed several flash drives he found there, and stuffed them in a pocket of his coat.
He exited the office, and the detectives stood scratching their heads as the Deputy Chief Constable strolled out the front doors and into a waiting car.
A Prisoner
Rebecca awoke with a splitting headache. Fighting the pain and nausea, she rubbed her eyes and groaned as she dragged herself up on one elbow. The room started to spin and she felt a sudden urge to be sick. She lay back down and closed her eyes. A few minutes later she made a second attempt. This time the contents of her stomach stayed put. Hanging onto some kind of wooden column beside her for support, she surveyed her surroundings.
She was in the exact center of a spacious bedroom. The column she was clinging to belonged to a gigantic four-poster bed on which she sat. The bedding, curtains, decorations and furniture in the room were sumptuous in the extreme, clearly of the highest quality, even to her untrained eye.
Strangely though, there were a variety of styles, many of which didn’t go together very well. The aesthetics of the room combined in a way that was surprisingly unattractive. It was as if whoever had decorated understood what constituted quality (through research?) but had no taste whatsoever.
A bottle of ibuprofen sat on the night table. She was leery about taking one, but decided that whoever brought her here could have done anything they wanted to her by now; she couldn’t see any motive for drugging her again.
Anyway, the throbbing in her skull was so intense she couldn’t think straight. She slid off the bed and stumbled into the equally impressive ensuite, fully laid out with towels and a bathrobe. Again, all were of the highest quality.
She took a long gulp of water and washed down two of the ibuprofen. She looked for her purse, but it was gone. Gradually shaking away the fog enveloping her brain, and feeling a bit stronger, she wobbled unsteadily back out to inspect the room. The windows were all shuttered and the shutters were locked, as were both of the room’s doors.
She was a prisoner.
Fifteen minutes later she was brought a meal, by one of the men who’d forced her into the van.
“Where am I?” she asked.
He set down the tray without a word.
“You can’t keep me here,” she said, and strode confidently for the door he’d entered. He grabbed her arm and hauled her back.
“Don’t make me hit you,” he finally spoke without emotion.
“What do you want with me?” Rebecca asked.
He said nothing, just turned and exited by the door he’d entered. She heard the click of the latch falling into place. She pulled on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She pounded on the door and screamed until her throat was raw. Eventually she gave up.
The presentation of the meal was impressive, but it was surprisingly tasteless. Shortly after she’d eaten, the same man returned, holding a gun. He motioned for her to leave the room and walked behind her.
“So I’m finally going to find out what I’m doing here,” she said, though in truth she had a pretty good idea.
She was led through a hallway in what appeared to be a single gigantic home. They passed another bedroom, and a room with shelves filled floor to ceiling with books. So far, other than her captor she hadn’t seen another soul. She finally heard voices in one of the rooms ahead. They reached a pair of French doors, and she could see inside.
A group of children of various ages sat on chairs, watching someone at the front. One of the older girls had a baby sitting on her lap. She turned and stared at Rebecca, her eyes black wells of emptiness. Rebecca’s gaze moved to the baby and her breath caught in her throat.
“Ralphie,” she whispered to herself.
She rushed to the doors and tried to pull them open.
The children turned to her. All had the same distant, animal stare she’d first noticed in Ralphie. She unlatched one of the doors and hauled it open a crack, but it was slammed shut again by her captor. He slapped her face, jammed the gun in her back, peeled her hand off the door handle and dragged her roughly forward.
“Ralphie!” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks as she continued to watch through the doors. Ralphie stared at her with the same empty expression as the others.
Her captor steered her toward a narrow set of stairs on their left and she was prodded downward, towards the blackness below.
The Only Way In
Frank lost count of the traffic violations he committed on his way to the Dogan mansion, but luck was with him and there were no cops around. H
e thought about Rebecca, a prisoner, possibly under torture at this very moment by a gang of psychopathic monsters. If she was alive she’d be at Dogan’s mansion. All his research had led him to believe the mansion was the ‘Genesis’ Ricky had described, the Matriarch’s personal sanctuary. If Rebecca still lived, her life would be cut short very soon. Once the Arx had what they wanted…
His gut twisted in knots; he was wasting time.
I failed her, just like I failed her sister, he thought.
He was almost overcome with the old paralyzing depression and helplessness. Suddenly he had the overwhelming urge for a drink. For an instant he considered turning the car around, abandoning his quest, and losing himself in the familiar numbness of alcoholic stupor. Inadequacy and failure had been his constant companions for so long now, what difference did it make?
Then he thought back to his time with Rebecca, how she’d stood by him as he battled his guilt and fear. How she’d put up with his belligerence, his childish denial, his panic attacks. How she’d inspired him to be the man he once was.
She had become the most important thing in his life. Now her life depended on his actions. Even if he didn’t care about himself, he vowed to keep it together for her. He dragged his consciousness out of its mire of self-pity.
On the way over, he’d replayed every scenario open to him. Even when they showed up, his former colleagues would be constrained by law to go through proper channels, with no proof that anyone’s life was at stake. Their careers would be on the line if they blew it dealing with someone as powerful as Arthur Dogan. The Arx would have cranked up security at the mansion; sneaking in was out of the question.
There was only one way inside.
He pulled his car up to the entrance, got out, and walked up to the gate with his hands in the air.
An Ally
Ricky Augustus concentrated, focusing all his attention on moving his hand to the control of his electric wheelchair. He accomplished this task, and drove the machine to the window of the upstairs room where he was being held prisoner.
When the Arx had kidnapped him from Mountain View he’d expected to be killed immediately, but then realized that his contact with Frank Langer had created uncertainty. Now they wanted to know who else he might have talked to.
He’d been brought back to Genesis. Coincidentally, he was being held prisoner in the very room where he’d grown up with his mother. He swiveled his chair and inspected the closet that had for so many years been his home. He was unable to wipe away a tear that streaked down from his one good eye.
He felt a stab of guilt that he’d broken under the Arx’s torture and told them about the man who had come to visit him several years ago. He hoped for the man’s sake that he was already dead, and wouldn’t have to endure what the Arx would have planned for him.
His captors had left Ricky alone for almost a day, probably fearing they would kill him before he told them all they wanted to know. Twenty minutes ago, Ricky had heard a woman screaming in a room down the hall, but now the screaming had stopped.
His torturers had returned momentarily. They’d been about to start in on a new round when they’d gotten a phone call and rushed away.
The drip feed of his pain-killers had run dry long ago. He was in excruciating agony, but he wanted to know what was happening. He rolled his chair up close to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds.
In the distance, the front gate had opened and two figures were walking down the laneway towards him. The gate closed again and as they moved closer Ricky recognized the men as the gatehouse guard and Frank, the other man who’d come to see him. The two approached and he saw that the gatehouse guard had a gun pressed into Frank’s back.
Ricky reflected that, apart from his own mother, Frank was the only person who’d ever shown him any real kindness. With monumental effort, he swiveled his chair around and inspected the room. He wondered if there was any way he could help Frank out.
He stared for a moment at the electrical outlet in the eastern wall. It was at a height he could reach. With difficulty, he moved his head and inspected the chair in which he sat. One of his drug delivery tubes was held in place by two twist-ties – the old style ones, consisting of a metal wire sheathed in paper. He remembered a trick for lighting cigarettes he’d heard some inmates talk about at Mountain View.
A box of tissues sat on one of the side tables. He wheeled his chair up next to the table and managed to knock the box into his lap. He turned and moved his chair as close to the outlet as possible.
It took several minutes to untie both of the twist-ties, and several more to strip the ends of each to bare metal, using his teeth.
With painful slowness, he manipulated the wires with his good hand, working one into each side of the electrical outlet.
He removed a tissue from the box on his lap and worked it into a ball, then held the ball next to the bare end of one wire as he moved the other to touch it and make a spark. It took several tries, but finally a spark landed on the tissue and it caught fire.
Ricky set the flaming tissue on the blanket on his lap. Soon it was burning as well. He added some more tissues, then the entire box. An alarm began to echo throughout the building and an automatic sprinkler in the ceiling across the room began to spray. As the flames engulfed his body, Ricky smiled. The Arx would never know whether he had anything more to tell.
A Battle Begins
Terry Hastings gazed out the passenger window as the unmarked police car in which he was riding toiled up the hill on Belmont Avenue, drilling ever deeper into the realms of the super-rich, rolling past the most prestigious addresses in Point Grey. The vistas of English Bay and the North Shore Mountains grew ever more stunning as each block rose in altitude. The team was headed for Arthur Dogan’s stupendous mansion hidden away in the most distant reaches of a meandering lane-way.
There were four of them in the car: driving was Sergeant Reid, the head of the unit. Reid didn’t normally do field work, but had made an exception this time. Beside him rode Art Crawford, Frank’s old poker buddy. In the back next to Terry was Charlie Hunter, a seasoned detective Frank trusted.
Terry wished Frank could have been with them, but that was impossible. Not only was Frank no longer officially on duty, he was now wanted on kidnapping and weapons charges, not to mention still a person of interest in the murder of Grant Stocker.
In fact, though the evidence from Carson was compelling, they were risking their careers intruding on the home of one of Vancouver’s wealthiest citizens when by the book they should be combing the city to pick Frank up on his outstanding warrants. They’d be lucky to hold onto their badges if Frank was proved wrong.
Frank had warned them about the danger of confronting Carson’s ‘Savants’, and based on Carson’s evidence they believed him, but they’d all signed on anyway. Backup was in place should it be required.
They stopped the car at the gatehouse guarding the entrance and were surprised to find it empty. Sergeant Reid got out and pushed a button on an intercom on the outside wall. Terry listened through the open car window.
“Police,” Reid said, holding up his badge to the camera. “We’d like to speak to Mister Arthur Dogan.”
A female voice answered. “What is this regarding?”
“Just routine,” Reid said. “We’re investigating the death of a reporter named Lawrence Retigo.”
Terry smiled. That should get a rise out of them, he thought.
“Mister Dogan is not here,” the deadpan voice said.
“Then I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Reid said.
“You can’t come in here without a warrant,” the voice answered.
“Look,” Reid said, “at the moment we’ve just got a few routine questions about a suspicious death. We can come back with a warrant if necessary.”
There was a long silence.
Finally the voice returned: “Mister Dogan is unavailable.”
Reid headed back to
the car. He was reaching for the door handle when a siren erupted from inside the mansion. Reid rushed to the massive gate and peered through the bars. He ran back to the car.
“There’s smoke pouring out of an upstairs window,” he shouted. “Looks like we’ve got probable cause.”
He raced over to the gatehouse. “Open the gate!” he yelled into the intercom. Nothing happened. He ran inside the gatehouse and released the gate, then jumped back in the driver’s seat.
They tore down the laneway, skidded to a stop in front of the main entrance, and rushed toward it. One of the giant wooden doors swung open and a young woman appeared.
“It’s a false alarm, officer,” she said. “Please leave the premises.”
Reid glanced up. Smoke continued to billow out of a second storey window.
“Then what’s that?” he said, nodding at it. “You better let us in.” He started to climb the steps.
“Please leave,” the woman insisted. “Everything’s under control.”
“We need to see for ourselves,” Reid said. He stepped up and onto the sweeping portico.
“You have no authority!” the woman shouted. “Do you know whose property this is?” A man appeared behind her.
Reid continued on.
Terry drew his weapon when he noticed the man’s hand move under his jacket.
The hand emerged holding a gun.
“Drop it!” Reid yelled, reaching for his own weapon. The man raised his gun. Terry fired and the shooter collapsed to the ground, his shot tearing a chip out of a wooden pillar beside Reid’s head.
“Art, call for backup!” Reid shouted.
The woman moved aside and another man appeared at the door with an automatic weapon. Terry lay down covering fire as Reid rushed down the stairs and the team dove behind the nearest trees. Terry peeked from behind his tree. Charlie Hunter lay on the pavement. He wasn’t moving.
The Arx Page 26