Dire Means (26 page)

Morana followed Mark as he toured the various areas of the suite. “Is this someone’s home?” Mark asked. “I thought we were at your offices.”

“We are at corporate headquarters. We have a number of suites and some of us live here. Please make yourself comfortable. This suite is yours for as long as you stay.”

They made their way back to the kitchen, Morana pointed to the countertop and said, “Nanette and Teddy have already been here and left you some refreshments. I’ll be back to take you to Papa in a few minutes.”

Morana exited, pausing in the hallway to wait for the door to click shut before she left.

Not a bad way to live underground, Mark thought. He assumed they were in some sort of bunker after seeing the ceiling through which the truck had been lowered and an absence of any windows.

He went to the counter for the refreshments. A bottle of chilled peach iced tea, his favorite, was in a bucket of ice. “Wow,” he said out loud. Bagels and cream cheese sat to the side on a silver platter. He helped himself and walked across the room to where the drapes hung. If they were underground, he wondered why the room needed drapes. He parted them and discovered a shiny, black screen of some sort—made of plastic. He drew his fingers across it, pulling the drapes back further. The black plastic was a panel screen that covered the entire wall. On the wall’s edge, he noticed an electronic control panel with the words
Open, Close, Day, Evening, Sun, Rain, Snow, Audio, Intensity, Brightness and Contrast.
He pressed
Open
and the long drapes slid apart, swinging their bottoms to either side of the wall in a lazy flop. The huge screen was as pristine as the windows of a limousine.

He pressed
Day
and a bright, high-definition moving image of a rolling green lawn, a garden, and trees covered the entire wall. He backed away for a better look. The trees swayed, birds flew by with muffled chirps, and for a few moments the bright green lawn dimmed and then brightened as though a passing cloud had blocked the sun. He pressed
Evening
and the wall darkened. Orange lines of a sinking sun shimmered on a beach and the sound of the waves splashing filled the room. He turned the screen off and thought of six clients who would purchase this system on the spot—without regard to cost—based on his description alone.

He went back to the den and sank into a sofa in front of the TV. The cushions swallowed him up and he laid his head back, taking in the wonder of these magnificent accommodations.

As he reached for the remote control on the coffee table, something caught his eye. A box of Rotherings on the opposite side of the table. He hadn’t seen Rotherings chocolate caramels since he was a young boy and didn’t know they were still manufactured. He loved them so much then, he would eat them until he was sick. He grabbed the box, feeling giddy as he examined its nostalgic logo and lettering that brought back so many memories.

He flicked on the TV and popped a Rothering into his mouth. The delicious flavor of childhood made him smile. He would ask Morana if he could take the box with him.

He flipped channels until he found a news update on the missing people. CNN had a “Breaking News” banner scrolling across the bottom of their broadcast. A third and fourth body had been found, and a press conference—now becoming a daily occurrence—would be held at the Santa Monica Police station at 6:00 p.m. Mark checked his watch. If the meeting with Pop was indeed short, he should be home in plenty of time to see the press conference live.

For the next ten minutes, he watched coverage of the victims. Psychologists and profilers speculated and argued about the motive and next move of the killer. The debate became heated with experts disagreeing on almost everything except that the dead were, indeed, dead.

Because of the peach iced tea he had guzzled, Mark had to use the restroom. He entered the master bath and marveled again at the spaciousness and beauty of its spectacular polished fixtures. Approaching the toilet, he saw a dark green object protruding from behind the pearl-laced shower curtain. He pulled the curtain back, exposing a long sniper rifle with a large mounted scope. He stood, frozen, surprised by the inappropriate location of a weapon. It made as much sense as a jackhammer stored in a library. A fully loaded ammo pouch strapped to the gun’s stock contained five rounds that protruded from it like glistening bear claws. The rifle gave him a chill and he checked over his shoulder to make sure the bathroom door was locked. His curiosity about the gun competed with his fear of it.

He let the curtain fall back to conceal the gun and then he used the toilet. After washing his hands, he opened the bathroom door to listen for Morana. The suite was quiet. He closed and locked the door and went back to the gun. He picked it up. Mark knew little about guns, and this rifle fascinated him. He rotated it carefully, examining it. The steel was cold and the gun heavier than he had anticipated. It was pristine and polished to an intense shine. At nearly four feet long, its barrel tip reached Mark’s stomach while the gun rested on the floor. On the end of the stock, he found an engraved tag that said, “Tango-51 Tactical Operations.”

He saw a switch on the scope, flipped it on, and aimed the rifle at the doorknob fifteen feet away. When he put his eye to the scope, he saw a digital readout beside a red-dot reticle on the doorknob. The readout showed blank values for windage, distance, and elevation.

Mark placed his finger on the trigger, but quickly removed it. He placed the gun exactly as he had found it and left the bathroom.

When he went back to the den, he saw Morana waiting for him out in the kitchen. She leaned on the counter turning the pages of a magazine. She looked up when she heard him.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Papa said to take you by the diner on the way to his office. He wants to make sure you are well fed. Follow me.” Morana tossed the magazine onto the counter and they left.

After they had taken two long hallways, Morana consoled through a door. When it opened, the aroma of an active grill engulfed them. Inside was a full diner, complete with a black and white checkered floor, red vinyl stools, and a few matching tables. An old fashioned jukebox flashed in the corner.

Behind the counter, two chefs in red and black chef hats and aprons worked over a grill. One stirred a large silver bowl. The other cut vegetables for the kabobs generating the mouth-watering smell. They smiled at Mark. One raised his hat with both hands and the other hollered, “Welcome, Mr. Denny!”

“Let’s find a seat,” Morana said. “Would you prefer the counter or the dining area?”

“Um, counter is fine,” Mark said, looking up at the shiny soda pop fountain behind the counter. Other fifties memorabilia lined the walls and oldies played in the background.

They each took a stool and Morana pulled a paper menu from beside the napkin holder and then handed it to Mark. When he opened it, his face lit up. “Wow,” he said. Then his expression became serious. He scanned the menu, gave Morana a hard stare, and then looked back to the menu.

“See anything you like?” she asked.

“What do you think?” Mark said, closing the menu. He put it down on the counter. “In fact, why don’t you just order for me?”

“What’s wrong?” Morana’s face was distressed.

“Is this a joke?” Mark said, pointing to the menu.

“No. We did some research. We wanted to offer you what you like.”

“It’s
everything
I like. Every food I’ve ever loved.” He picked up the menu again. It displayed a compilation of Mark’s favorite foods that would have been difficult for even Mark to list—grilled vegetable kabobs, vegetable lasagna, warm sourdough bread, tossed green salad with Thousand Island as the only dressing option. The menu’s dessert section showed chocolate malt and key lime pie with ginger graham cracker crust. The kicker—the one that couldn’t have been a coincidence—was Mark’s Macaroni Madness. Henry and Althea Bonfiglio had certainly not given out their recipe for Mark’s dish.

“We thought you would like this,” Morana said.

“You people are creeping me out. There’s stuff on here that I had forgotten I love. What else do you know about me?”

Morana curled her hair behind her ear and swung her legs from the stool like a little girl. “Mark, information management is our profession. We’ve used our resources to obtain information about you that allows us to accommodate you comfortably. You are a VIP. Papa explained that heroes rarely feel worthy of the praise that follows their acts, but I wish you could feel it—because you deserve any special treatment we can offer you.”

Mark nodded. The secret trip, the treatment, the gun, and now all of his favorite foods printed on a menu by strangers all began to creep him out and he was eager to leave this place. “I would prefer to just get to my meeting with Pop. I’m not hungry.”

“Is there something wrong with our selection? Did we miss something? The chefs will prepare anything you want—”

“No, no. Please. Let’s just go meet Pop.”

After navigating a series of hallways they rounded a corner to a dead end. Morana placed her hand over the console of a red door that stood out among the white ones. It clicked open. She held up her hand signaling Mark to wait. She peered into the room. “Okay,” she said, and then pushed the door open for Mark.

He stepped through the doorway onto thick, dark red carpet. It was a large room with the features of both an office and lounge.

Mark heard the fire crackling from a stone fireplace in the corner, but stepping closer, he saw that the fireplace had no real logs in it. A large flat-panel monitor in the mouth of the fireplace produced perfect footage and audio of a hearty fire, licking a perfect stack of logs. Off to one, side three rows of cushioned, bleacher-style seats lined a wall. The office was dim with small spotlights creating focal points on artifacts encased in glass cabinets spaced evenly on the wall. A series of ceiling-mounted lamps shone down on several large portraits. A photo showed the first Trail Bladers Data Destruction office with an old Trail Bladers van parked in front. On the far wall hung a full-length painting of a homeless man sitting on a curb, smiling, his hand held up to take a shiny coin from a young boy offering it.

Behind a desk sat a man wearing a black suit, red tie, and dark sunglasses. He had a thin frame and a trimmed half-inch white beard.

“Mark, I’d like you to meet Pop,” Morana said.

“Greetings, Mark,” Pop said, reclining in his chair. Mark studied his face, trying to confirm whether this was truly the “Al” he had rescued at the Promenade. The light in the room was too dim to be sure. Pop smiled and said, “Mark, you have my gratitude for both risking your life for me and agreeing to share a slice of your life with us today.”

“You’re welcome…” Mark said, still searching for recognition. Morana stepped outside, and began to pull the door closed to give them some privacy.

“Morana, stay,” Pop said, still smiling at Mark.

“Yes, Papa,” she answered, stepping back inside. The door clicked behind her followed by the heavy clunk of an electronic deadbolt.

Pop walked around his desk, but stood at a distance—not close enough to oblige a handshake. “My name is Al. My friends call me Pop,” he said.

“Good to meet you,” Mark said warily.

“I had hoped it would be.”

Mark studied Pop’s face. The asymmetric smile, Pop’s height and voice all fit as Mark’s memory of his rooftop rescue strengthened.

Noticing Mark’s curiosity, Pop lifted his sunglasses to his forehead. “Forgive my shades,” he said.

Mark immediately saw the eyes of the man on the roof. However, something was different. Under Pop’s left eye was an almost healed black and purple bruise.

“After you left, Officer Reynolds found a private moment to thank me for the national P.R. I gave him.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Mark said, leaning in for a better look.

“It is good to see you again,” Pop said, letting his sunglasses slide back down to his nose. “Please, sit.” He opened his hand toward the middle of three chairs facing his desk.

Mark sat and Morana sat beside him. Pop shifted his upper body left and right rather than turn his head from side to side—the way Mark remembered him doing. On the roof, Mark had thought it was Al’s concern about dislodging the rope that caused him to keep his head still. In reality, it seemed Pop always moved that way.

“You are the man I rescued at the Third Street Promenade last week?” Mark asked, trying to do away with residual suspicion.

Pop raised his right hand. “Guilty as charged. Our makeup department is excellent.” Pop reached to his desk and grabbed a phone. He put it to his ear and said, “Teddy, please,” and then hung it up too soon to have confirmed an answer.

“You have all of this?” Mark swept his finger around the room. “What kind of a sick joke was that on the roof?”

Through a small speaker mounted beside the door, an electronic voice said, “Teddy.” Pop removed a PDA from his pocket and tapped the screen with his finger. The door clicked open and Teddy peered in.

“Teddy, sit,” Pop said, not looking at him.

“Yes, Papa. Thank you, Papa,” Teddy said as he took the other seat beside Mark.