The Arx (35 page)

Then everything faded to black.

A Change of Plans

Frank was still hoping to flood the Internet with Carson’s information, but it was now three forty-five. Rebecca should have arrived on Galiano by now and would be waiting for his call at four. He drove to another location and parked in the darkest corner of the lot of an aging strip mall.

There was no point in trying to call early. He’d instructed her to keep her phone turned off in case it could be traced. Instead he phoned Mountain View Clinic and asked to speak to Nurse Carstairs. Over the phone he heard a rush of frantic activity in the background. Carstairs’ voice shook as she explained what was going on.

Ricky Augustus was missing.

“I don’t know how it could have happened,” she said, her voice breaking. Frank heard doors opening and slamming, and employees shouting as they rushed up and down the halls. “We’ve always been so careful keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s got that electric wheelchair,” Frank said. “Is it possible he just took off?”

“He’s never shown any interest in going anywhere before,” she said. ”Anyway the chair is only good for an hour or so, and it’s very slow. We scoured the area for blocks around. We couldn’t find anything.”

“So what are you saying? That he’s been kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what else to think,” the nurse said. “But why?”

The bile rose in his throat as he hung up the phone. If they had Ricky, would they know about Carson?

Frank closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, tried to imagine that it was all over, that the state of terror that had gripped him for weeks now was somehow magically lifted away.

He thought about his life before that night at Janet’s: before Gloria, Ralphie, Lawrence Retigo, Ricky Augustus, Richard Carson. It had seemed like its own plodding nightmare at the time, a dull gray wash of nothingness: floating in limbo, neither wanting nor expecting anything out of his existence.

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. He 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.