Heritage (The Slendervale Series Book 2)

by Sean Mannette

  He stood less than a hundred feet from the brazier and the other hooded figures. “Susan!” He bellowed in the direction he had been running. His voice sounded rough and hard, returning to him from the cold stone. His head spun, the scream went on uninterrupted, and the other robed figures stood still as statues. He ran toward the nearest, grabbing the outstretched arm. Blood gleamed red in the firelight from one of the figures, as he ripped back the hood. A woman stared at him, the shadows from the fire lending a gauntness to her beautiful, stone-cold face. She wrenched her hand from his grasp with impossible strength, then reversed it toward him so fast it blurred.

  Her slap sent him sprawling. The sound of snapping bone bounced sickeningly around the room, rising up to greet him. Adam felt the crunch, followed by the blinding pain that spread through his jaw and down to his heart. His vision swam with stars, dancing and heaving along with his stomach and heartbeat. Adam glanced up at the woman, trying to hold his mangled and dangling jaw in place. Not a single red lock on her head had been disturbed.

  When she spoke it was with his wife’s voice. Susan’s voice was always full of curiosity and awe. Everything astounded her, and all the world seemed to give up to her its abundant wonder. It was an infectious voice, the voice of beckoning adventure. Now it sounded from this skin-stretched skull, grinning in the wicked light of the fire. “Adam! Help me!”

  Adam coughed, the broken pieces of his jaw jarring painfulling against his palm. Blood sluiced freely onto the stone below, black in the shadows of the room. Gazing up at the ghoul of a woman, Adam tried to call back against the grinding of the sharp bone in his face and the blood flowing hot against his tongue. His words dissolved into wet choking.

  Adam’s eyes snapped shut against a sudden, bright light while the coppery taste filled his mouth and the pieces of his shattered jaw dug into his skull.

  His neck was stiff where it rested against the high-backed chair.

  Adam blinked open his eyes, even the dim lights of his room strong against his dilated pupils. A greasy and crusted tuxedo loomed over him, the off-white shirt done up with frills from the last decade. The frills stopped at an off-kilter bowtie, somewhat obscured behind a wiry, unkempt brown beard. The bellhop.

  Adam shrank backward against the chair.

  “What are you doing here?” He choked out, still groggy from the dream.

  Bartholomew’s face dropped into his line of vision, his stale breath filling Adam’s nostrils.

  “The master would like to speak with you.” The accompanying smile was meant to be disarming.

  Adam scowled as he rose from the chair, his back creaking as he drew himself up to his full height. The drinks from earlier still thrummed in his blood.

  “Get the fuck out of my room.” Adam dropped his voice as low as he could, staring into the bellhop’s yellowed eyes.

  “You didn’t answer when I knocked. I heard shouting.” Bartholomew spread his hands, slouching. He looked harmless enough, now that Adam was looming over him. “So I entered. You were sleeping. You are wanted in the penthouse.”

  “What for?” Adam scowled suspiciously.

  “The master wishes to meet with you.” The bellhop smiled mysteriously. “He did not tell me why. Perhaps to speak of your wife.”

  Susan! Adam shivered as he recalled the unsettling screams. She was why he was here.

  “Tell him I’ll be up in a moment.” Adam said, striding past the creature.

  “You don’t understand me. I am to show you up to the office.” Bartholomew turned to address Adam, gesturing to the closed door.

  Biting down a reply with a scowl, Adam proceeded out with the bellhop in tow. Bartholomew's lanky legs soon outpaced Adam as the two moved to the elevator in silence.

  Bartholomew extended one long claw and jabbed at the button marked ‘PH’. The elevator moved silently up twenty seven floors to the penthouse.

  The doors opened into a warmly lit, windowless atrium, larger than Adam’s room. The walls were decorated in the same antique style which permeated the hotel, but here it seemed to Adam they had truly stepped back into the roaring ‘20s. The wood was richly stained, and the gilded fixtures showed none of the signs of age that Adam had seen elsewhere throughout the hotel. The room was clearly lovingly cared for. Adam was enthralled. Still pushed by the momentum of the ‘80s, he was no stranger to the decadence and indulgence capable of man; but the spirits here whispered that he had seen nothing compared to the time of their creation.

  Bartholomew cleared his throat from the elevator behind. Adam realized he was staring, blocking the doorway into the room. He stepped to one side, and followed Bartholomew past an empty reception desk. They moved through twin oaken doors, and veered right down a well-lit hallway.

  The sight of the bellhop against such a rich backdrop made his countenance even more revolting and out of place: a scar against the fine figure the penthouse struck. He stooped toward an imposing door and twisted a more recognizable key into its lock.

  Sunlight shone gently into the room, gleaming against the polished wood. A desk, richly carved but tastefully small stood on one wall, connected and adjacent to another desk where a manilla computer hummed, a small graphic bouncing around the screen. Against one wall was a mural depicting a map, done with incredible attention to detail. Adam drew nearer to it, studying it intently.

  The mural was of Slendervale, and spanned the entire eastern wall of the room. Some of the features of the map, the newly moved football stadium for example, indicated that it was done recently, but the style of it was flawlessly colonial. Adam turned to survey more of the room. The bellhop retreated in the meantime, leaving him entirely alone in the most magnificent office he had ever seen.

  Windows to the south and west opened the room up to the warm light of the sun and a breathtaking view of downtown Slendervale. On either side of the northern wall, where they had entered, were two impressive bookshelves, packed full with leather volumes. In the corner where the bookshelf met the map sat six comfortable-looking, wood-backed chairs surrounding a low wooden coffee table.

  Adam stood awestruck, soaking it all in. His garage had been his office for the last several years, through his various enterprises. His last one had culminated into a small, ground level office space complete with a window and small tree, but this office was the stuff of his dreams. He could feel the gravitas of power beating in this heart. More than anything he wanted this. It was easy to forget when he was between projects, what he kept fighting for. This space was a reminder, a yardstick; and one that now, more than ever, seemed impossibly far away. Adam turned in the center of the room, trying to commit everything to memory: the chairs, the map, the desks… The antique wooden globe which stood between map and window in the south east corner. It was massive, decorated in the same style as the map on the wall. Adam approached it slowly, with reverence.

  As he walked a distinct metal click sounded, and the sound of bold, unhurried footsteps entered the room.

  “I see you’ve found the main attraction,” A voice called out.

  Adam turned to see a striking figure standing before him. Tall, with broad shoulders and a completely bald head that gleamed in the sunlight, the man was nothing short of regal. His suit, navy blue with thin white pinstripes, had a certain lustre reserved for some of the best fabrics, and was clearly tailor-made for him. A thick gold watch encircled his left wrist, as did a silver wedding band. A sizable ruby glimmered from a ring on his right pinky finger as he extended a hand toward Adam.

  “You must be Mr. Church.” Adam returned the shake, impressed with the grip that was firm and unyielding without being overpowering.

  “Adam,” He countered. “You have a wonderful office.”

  The man nodded, his red goatee bouncing up and down in time with mischievous green eyes. They sparkled with hidden delight, altogether much younger than his middle-aged face should hold.

  “My favorite feature,” The man nodded at the globe. “And a constant battlegr
ound for my wife. She keeps insisting I put something more modern in its place. One of those gaudy ceramic sculptures or some other such nonsense.”

  Adam found himself chuckling, the horrors of the last several days easing from his mind. His shoulders rolled down, and his stiff tongue settled down to relax at the bottom of his mouth once more. He hadn’t even realized he had been so on edge.

  “That wouldn’t fit the style, I shouldn’t think.” Adam said, raising one hand toward the large map by way of explanation.

  “Quite right. But that’s not why you must refuse her attempts to get you on her side.” He knocked on the globe, and a hollow echo resounded. “Like everything in this world, our feature favorite here is not what it seems. No, like everything modeled on the 1920s it would have you believe it is much more glamorous than it is.”

  Adam gazed down at the globe, curious. He had completely missed the small studs with hexagonal holes, a hallmark of cheap furniture one would buy and assemble oneself.

  The man pried up the top of the globe, which neatly came free on silent hinges. There, in the belly of the world, sat three crystal decanters with bar glasses to match, as well as several steel implements that Adam recognized as tools for tending bar.

  The man flipped over two of the glasses, precariously balancing them on the frame that encircled the globe. He poured a few fingers of a brown liquid in each, a bit more than what most would have considered modest. One he kept for himself and the other he passed to Adam.

  He raised his glass in a silent salute, which Adam returned. Adam gulped down a sip of the whiskey. It warmed his belly, spreading out and tingling through his fingers. The drink was rich and full, but had almost no bite to it. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling immensely.

  “Right?” The man chuckled, his own head tilted back. “Money can change a lot about a man. Make him insensitive to all kinds of simple pleasures. But a fine drink will always be a fine drink.”

  Returning to the conversation with a start, Adam nodded his head at the elegantly cut figure before him. “I take it you own the hotel?”

  The man nodded. “Hotel, apartment complex, office building, event hall... I never could decide what it should be, so I made it everything. But yes, the floor that you’re staying on is the hotel. I’m Francis. De La Poer.”

  He spoke with authority, unhalting and unashamed. The name was spoken without the flourish of French, but with much more relish than Adam had ever heard in English. De La Power. It thrummed through his ears. Francis gestured to his desk.

  Adam sat down in one of the seats set before it, and was immediately overcome with comfort. The high-backed chair behind the desk, which Francis settled into, seemed even more welcoming.

  “Your… Doorman, fetched me,” Adam started.

  “Ah, Bart. Yes. Forgive him, he strikes an ill figure, no doubt there. Unsettling, but he is loyal. He was with me in the beginning, so I do what I can to find uses for him. As a businessman, you will understand that, I’m sure.”

  Adam felt suddenly taken aback. “How did you–”

  Francis cut him off with a wave, finishing a sip of scotch before he answered. “Your wife, the matter at hand. I spoke with her somewhat. She did mention something of the window business to me as well. What happened?”

  His wife. The stress of the week crashed back over him and overpowered the pleasant, lingering taste of the scotch. “That’s what I would like to know. The police don’t seemed to give a damn about anything. It’s why I’m here.”

  Green eyes met his gaze unflinchingly. Adam began to relax again, just barely.

  “Not that,” Francis leaned forward. “We will have much to work on to find your wife, and I imagine it will take some time. Police look for what is right in front of them. Laziness. As untrustworthy as a Sunday school condom.” He paused to smile at his own joke. “They’ll assume she ran out on you, and call it done. We don’t have the luxury to be so cut and dry.

  “But I was asking about your business! I admit, I’ve looked at it myself. Window washers. They’re all self employed, independent business owners. They take all the profits for themselves, and charge a pretty premium. Most of them couldn’t do a lick of accounting or marketing. So why not just hire a few kids instead? It was a brilliant idea, son.”

  Adam nodded, taking another sip from his glass. “It did look good, on paper. More than a 30% operating profit, with no measure of real competition. A couple of sponges and shammies were the only real startup costs.” He sighed. “But the guys who were already working this, they all hated big business more than they hated each other. They were willing to play dirty while a bunch of kids weren’t.”

  Francis was silent for a moment, absorbing everything that was said.

  “If they were as unprofessional as you think, didn’t it occur to you to call the IRS? I’d bet more than half of their books were bad.”

  Adam shook his head. “It would have taken too long, and I’d be out of business just the same. Besides, I wasn’t trying to send anybody to jail.”

  “Well, that is something. Why not take on new markets?”

  Shaking his head again, Adam countered, “Junk mail is cheap. Anyone who wanted clean windows has them. The only way to get a hold was to shake them loose.”

  Francis leaned back and laughed, crossing his feet over his desk. “So shake them loose. A couple of bricks. A couple of broken windows. The shopkeepers would understand that you would take better care of their windows than the last guys!”

  Adam stared, astounded. The thought had, more than once, crossed his mind. He had sat in his car all night, just before the business folded, with a golf ball and a dangerously manufactured slingshot, thinking about doing just that. Going out of business had seemed a safer bet than going to jail. It seemed every venture of his ended that same way. He gazed at Francis, unable to voice his thoughts.

  Francis nodded. “You want to be an entrepreneur, Adam? Set your own hours? Sleep in during the week? Make just enough to pay the bills and vacation once a year?”

  Adam shook his head, angry this time. “Screw that. I could be selling steak knives and have that.”

  “You want something exceptional. An empire.” Adam nodded to this. “Then you must realize that empires aren’t born because of a good idea. Blood and arms, my boy. Look at Rockefeller. Morgan. Carnegie. They got their start in businesses, not ideas. And they played hardball. You don’t need an idea, you need balls.”

  Adam halfway rose out of his seat to protest, but Francis continued.

  “I didn’t build this hotel. I didn’t invent real estate, or stocks. I forged alliances and stepped on my competition. My grandfather showed me how. What you need is a history lesson, business be damned.”

  Adam shook his head. “What I need, all due respect, is to find my wife. If you can help in any way, great. If not, I’ll head back downstairs.”

  Francis refilled their glasses from the crystal decanter.

  “One subsumes the other. Your wife is somewhere. Unless it is a cabin in the woods, it means people know where. Those people have enemies, and those enemies can be made your friends. Once you know where, what to do next is up to you.”

  Adam dropped his head, staring at the murky glass in front of him. “I don’t even know if she is alive.”

  Francis' eyes grew harsh. “Even then, you still have business with whoever had her.”

  Chapter Four

  Adam’s face still swam pleasantly with the warmth of the alcohol. The elevator chimed softly as it opened, prepared to whisk him down to the ground floor.

  Francis was inspiring, and the conversation had left him energetic as never before. He had to restrain himself from doing jumping jacks in the elevator, but did compromise on a few quick phantom punches.

  After their meeting, Francis had arranged for him to speak to Bartholomew in the first floor bar. He had agreed to help Adam in whatever way possible. An alliance with a man like that, as Francis would say, was very
good business. Adam was still riding high from their conversation and no number of creepy bellhops could possibly deter him now.

  The elevator chimed softly again as it reached the ground floor. The steel doors opened, and Adam was greeted with his second sight of the lobby. The black marble stretched out before him, barely reflective, absorbing everything. Adam walked briskly to the bar, self-assured. He nodded at the desk clerk as he passed, who was napping again despite the afternoon hour.

  The bar itself was dimly lit, partly by overhead fixtures, but mostly by small lights spread out on each of the tables. As he passed these on his way to the bar he nodded at a trio of young women, speaking in low tones over wine. He had to twist to slip past the figure of possibly the largest man he had ever seen getting up from one of the tables, and nearly stumbled into an out-of-place figure wearing brown tweed; the eyebrows of the silver-haired man jumped up from behind his spectacles as he dodged out of Adam’s path. Knocking into a chair, the gentleman apologized to no one in particular, then set about arranging the chair as it was.

  Adam approached a long mahogany bar that sparkled dimly with reflected light. The bar itself was mostly empty, save for a waifish but attractive woman a few seats down from him. She looked him over, then shakingly flicked the ashes of her cigarette into a nearby bar glass. Adam nodded to her and took his seat. He could see no one behind the bar. Probably the dwarf at the front desk was on duty. Sighing internally, he looked to the woman on his right, motioning to the empty bar.

  She grinned, white teeth sparkling against a backdrop of frizzy red hair and dark eyeshadow. Dragging from her cigarette, she spoke around her exhale, “You could just…” She motioned behind the bar. “I won’t tell.”

  Adam grinned back. Still a little giddy, he reached behind the bar, producing a bottle of some kind of blue liqueur. This he replaced, producing another bottle, this one filled with orange juice. Spying a multitude of liquor bottles across the bar against the far wall, he smiled back at the woman.