The Constantine Conspiracy (9 page)

The sun went down and he kept thinking. About daybreak a name came to him and he knew he’d reached the right conclusion. But would the guy do it? No way to know except to ask. But should he put an old friend in danger? Maybe in trouble with the law? He hadn’t seen him in close to three years and hadn’t spent any real time with him since their senior year in high school. Would the old friend forgive him for his fame? The differences between them that had cast Rick into the spotlight and left him behind? Rick weighed his chances all morning, then knew he had to give it a shot, so he made the call on Luisa’s cell, failed the first two times but reached the man on the third try. To Rick’s relief, the old friend instantly agreed to do as Rick requested, no questions asked. The next few hours passed quickly, and now the time had almost arrived.

Rick checked his watch as he neared North Atlanta, and traffic picked up. Almost 5:00 p.m., just before dinner. Perfect. Keeping his eyes open for cops, he eased off Interstate 75 and turned in and out through a series of tree-lined streets until he reached the one he sought. He drove even more carefully now, his nerves on edge, expecting at any moment to hear a siren telling him to stop. Thankfully, though, none sounded, and Rick finally saw what he was looking for maybe fifty yards away. He pulled his car to the nearest parking space, switched it off, and sat for a few seconds to catch his breath. Within a few minutes, he’d most likely be in jail. But not before he had his chance.

Adrenaline suddenly flooded his bloodstream and all vestiges of weariness left him. It was time. Do it, do it, do it. Rick pulled his cap tighter, grabbed his bag with the cash and other belongings, and hopped out.

Traffic whizzed up and down the street, but nobody challenged him, and thirty seconds later Rick ducked into the back of an empty brown van—the refuge his accomplice had promised to deliver. Again as agreed, a clean gray uniform— pants and shirt—lay on the passenger seat. Rick picked it up, stepped to the back of the van, and changed clothes. Then he pulled off his hat, smoothed his hair, and moved back to the driver’s seat. After switching on the ignition, he surveyed the street and saw a police car about two blocks up; just as he had expected. Cops always watched family members of suspects. Undeterred, he shifted the van into drive, pulled past the police, then turned right, drove a couple of minutes, then turned right again. Straight ahead, the back gate of an expansive private property beckoned—acres and acres of pine, oak, maple, and dogwood. Rick knew from previous visits that a stream ran through the center of the grounds and a waterfall splashed through a fountain that fronted the stone mansion housing fifty inhabitants in palatial splendor.

He fell into line behind two other delivery trucks as they approached the guardhouse that protected the property. Another police vehicle sat on the road a block from the gate. Rick’s pulse notched up as he reached it, but one cop had a phone to his ear and the other held a sandwich to his mouth, so he drove past them without incident. A few seconds later he eased the van to the guardhouse, his mouth dry with fear. He glanced at the name on his uniform shirt, the company logo beneath it. Julio Montoya—a new employee of Taste Buds, a caterer that provided expensive but tasty meals to the specialty food market in North Atlanta.

An elderly gentleman in a blue security uniform inside the glassed-in gatehouse waved at Rick as he approached, and he pulled ten one hundred dollar bills from his cash and an identification card from his shirt pocket, discreetly folded the cash, and handed it with the ID to the guard. The man quickly slid the money out of sight, then studied the ID.

“You a sub today?” he asked Rick.

“Yes, sir. The regular guy’s wife had a baby.”

“His fifth. Seems like he ought to watch more TV.”

“That’d be my next move if I was him.”

The guard handed back the ID, then lowered his voice. “Tony vouches for you; I can trust that?”

“In and out in a flash, no harm done, I promise.”

The guard waved him through and Rick exhaled and headed the van toward the service entrance of Rolling Hills— the plush facility where the richest people in the world sent their disturbed, their addicted, and their depleted for replenishment and recovery.

Nolan Charbeau sat on a stiff leather chair in the basement of Rolling Hills, his eyes fixed on a row of monitors that decorated the wall before him. Although he’d barely slept in two days, he didn’t feel particularly tired. A steady diet of amphetamines plus a metabolism that operated well on about four hours of sleep a night warded off the weariness that defeated most men. He scanned the monitors one after another, his instincts reminding him of a long-proven truth. In a crisis, normal men returned to those who loved them most. In Rick Carson’s case that truism offered only two choices—his grandfather or his mother, and Charbeau fully expected Rick to seek out his momma first, just as he would have done.

A private, early-morning phone call from the local police chief and a midday million-dollar donation from The Walter Augustine Foundation had more than convinced the CEO at Rolling Hills to allow Charbeau to conduct his surveillance of the property.

“I’m watching for Rick Carson,” Charbeau informed the executive, a man in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

“The police are here too,” the CEO said. “They don’t mind your presence?”

“They’re on board,” Charbeau lied, failing to mention that only the chief knew of his presence. “No worries from that angle.”

“I’ll tolerate no violence,” the CEO said, asserting an authority he no longer held since he’d quickly accepted the donation. “And keep things low key, no one else with you.”

Charbeau smiled as if agreeing but made no promises. Now, having ushered the regular guard out of the room, Charbeau watched the monitors alone, his eyes sweeping from the two entry gates—one for the vendors and employees in the back and one for guests and family at the front—to the hallways running past the large suites where the clients resided. If Rick Carson showed up here, as Charbeau fully expected, he’d put the clamps on him. And, contrary to what the CEO wanted, if that required violence, so be it.

After parking the van in a clearly defined space near the home’s back entrance, Rick climbed out, rubbed down his beard, and moved as naturally as possible through the rear door and into the food preparation area. Thankfully, as his accomplice had told him, Taste Buds employees turned over with great regularity, and the workers in the kitchen paid him little attention.

As previously instructed, Rick made his way to a men’s dressing area down the hall from the kitchen, pulled a freshly starched white jacket and black slacks off a rack in the corner, and slipped into them. After buttoning the jacket, he pulled on a pair of shiny black shoes from beside the rack and tied the laces. Then he moved back to the kitchen where a large African American woman in a gray uniform pointed him to a service cart stacked with food trays. “Julio Montoya?” she asked.

Rick nodded.

“New guys.” The lady shrugged. “All the time, new guys. Go—elevator over there.”

Rick stepped to the cart, pushed it to the elevator, and hit the button for the fifth floor. A couple of minutes later the elevator stopped and he stepped off, the cart before him. A quick scan of the area revealed the video cameras—one above each of the five suites on the hallway—and he quickly faced sideways, hoping to hide as much of his face as possible from surveillance.

With the cart before him, Rick headed to the last suite on the right, a suite as luxurious as those found in any of the world’s finest hotels. Just two big differences—bars covered the windows of the suite and the service staff removed all sharp objects from the rooms when they left.

Keeping his head down, Rick reached his mother’s suite, stopped, and glanced around again. Nothing looked threatening, so he quickly pulled a tray from the cart, propped it on his shoulder, and hit the call button on his mother’s door. Conflicting emotions pumped through him as he waited. Although he’d fought her about it more than once, his mother had always insisted that he stay away from Rolling Hills.

“Not here,” she had said the last time he caught her in an almost-lucid moment, about eight months ago. “No good here, shameful. Stay away, forget me, go on with your life.”

“I want to see you,” he argued. “Take care of you.”

“No good!” she shouted, tears in her eyes. “Hurts, I’m sorry, but no good here, shameful. Run far, run.”

His heart broken, Rick had argued with her for almost an hour, but she became more and more agitated, so he finally gave up and left. When he’d visited again a couple of months later, his mom had refused to speak, just sat there with her arms folded and her eyes vacant. Now, although unsure what she’d do when she saw him, Rick felt that his best hope for finding out what happened to his dad rested somewhere in the confused, often incoherent tangles of his mother’s mind.

“Yes,” his mom called over the intercom.

“Dinner,” he said.

“Okay.”

The door lock clicked, and Rick glanced up and down the hall a final time and pushed open the door. His mom, Rebecca Elizabeth Carson, only daughter of the richest man in the world, stood all the way across the majestic room, her eyes fixed on something beyond the barred, round-topped window through which she gazed. Her sandy blonde hair lay softly just above her shoulders. She wore a finely tailored tan suit, with a blue silk blouse and discrete tan pumps.

“Mom?” Rick whispered, hoping to shock her into recognizing him.

She turned, her green eyes searching Rick’s but without any sign of recognition. She looked normal, a distinguished woman of fifty-six years, mother of one son, patron of the arts, magnanimous giver to multiple charities, a face fit in her younger days for fashion magazines. Too bad that something had shifted in her brain, a psychotic episode, a nervous breakdown; a mental collapse—none of the doctors knew exactly what to call it, said nobody did.

Away doing his own thing when she first fell apart, Rick had missed the signs pointing to the collapse and still knew few of the details surrounding it. A call from Pops gave him a thin outline of what had occurred.

“Your mother,” Pops said in his subtle southern style. “She’s troubled.”

“Troubled?” Rick asked.

“Your father and I put her in an institution today, the finest facility, I assure you. She will receive the absolute best care that money can provide.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Diagnostics are being performed even as we speak, but these things aren’t easily defined. She suffers from paranoia, racing thoughts, delusions, confusion.”

“What caused it?”

“Who knows, Rick? Physiology, chemical imbalances, some intense trauma. When you’re dealing with emotional distress, answers come hard.”

Rick had asked scores of other questions when he rushed home half a day later, but neither his father nor Pops knew much more. Or, if they did, they weren’t telling him. He visited her every day for almost a month, talked to every doctor he knew and some he didn’t, without gaining any more understanding; he finally gave up and returned to his life. Yes, he had continued to question his dad from time to time, but nothing ever changed and he eventually stopped inquiring.

“It’s me, Mom.” He tried again to jar her into the present. “Rick. You okay? I’ve missed you.”

She waved him off and he tried another tactic.

“I brought you dinner,” he said.

Rebecca stepped back and pointed to a table. “There,” she said.

Rick placed the tray on the table, glanced at his watch, and waited for his mom to sit.