Dire Means (50 page)

The thought gave Morana a visible chill. “Yes, we can. But I assure you that he would rather die than see one of those fodder released alive. The explosives in the Nest will detonate if he doesn’t interact with that computer—I don’t know how. That’s where you come in. If your device works well enough to see what he does and how he’s doing it, then you can change everything.”

They paused to look at the movie screen. The movie was a comedy that wasn’t funny.

Morana said, “We’re doing the pickup of your TellTale device any time now. A driver will text me when he retrieves it from your friend. In any case, we’ll be back at the Nest long before your mom arrives. How confident are you that your friend got it to work inside a pen?”

“Kourokina is a genius. I have every confidence in him. But if he gives us an empty pen, we’re also screwed.”

“He wants his dogs. I guarantee the pen will have something in it,” Morana said.

Her phone beeped and Mark looked over as she clicked it on. A text message read, “Retrieved package. ETA 4 minutes. NE corner Pearl and Lincoln.”

“The driver—Temur—has the package that contains your TellTale. Let’s do it,” she said.

“Can’t Pop read that message?” Mark said, pointing to Morana’s phone.

“He doesn’t read them all, but he could if he is watching. This message is vague enough for me to explain away. Now, are you ready to do this?”

Mark swallowed hard and nodded. His mouth was dry. He leaned forward and rested his face in his hands for a moment. When he sat up, Morana put her hand on his shoulder and said, “The driver will wait. Do you need a few minutes?”

“No. I’m going to need every second I can get at the Nest.”

As they sneaked back into the showing of
The Candle Basket
they noticed a group of four police officers talking with the theater staff at the concession counter at the end of the hallway. They ducked into their original theater without being noticed and sidestepped down the seats of the back row where they had left their shirts, but the shirts were gone.

Morana froze, staring down at the empty seats. She searched the seats ahead of them as if she may have accidentally entered the wrong row. It wasn’t a mistake—the shirts were gone. Mark grabbed his hat with both hands and grimaced. He helped her scour the floor and surrounding seats. When they both sat up after searching in vain, Morana mirrored Mark’s look of panic and then pointed to the emergency exit down in the front beside the movie screen.

“But the alarm will sound!” Mark said.

“Go now or we’re both dead.” She shoved Mark hard.

They ran down the side aisle of the theater, slammed through the emergency exit and stumbled into an alley. The fire alarm sounded as they sprinted. They heard the alarm become muffled behind them when the theater’s emergency door closed. Morana led the way, turning at the corner as if she had a destination in mind. Mark struggled to keep up with her. They ducked into the open back door of a commercial building, almost colliding with a delivery person who had left it propped open.

“Whoa, slow your roll,” the man said, lifting his clipboard in the air and pressing himself against the wall as they passed.

“Sorry,” Mark gasped.

Morana panted, too. She opened her phone and tried to key in a text for Temur, but her fingers trembled and she couldn’t type.

“Give it to me,” Mark said.

Morana handed over her phone and said, “Text him Broadway and Second, and end it with STAT.” She leaned on her knees to catch her breath while Mark typed.

After he finished, he handed the phone back to her and said, “Someone in the theater could have taken the shirts.”

“In the middle of a movie?”

“Tourists—anybody could have snagged them.”

“If we return to the Nest and it turns out our shirts were lifted by someone who wanted some Trail Bladers gear, then our plan is still good. But if Pop took the shirts, then we’ll be shredded in the Gullet as quickly as they can drag us there.”

“What if we don’t go back?”

“Your mom, Janne, and whoever else Pop has will die along with my…” Morana stopped short, blinking back tears.

“Along with your what?”

“My brother, my nephew, and others. Pop has shown me the access he has to them. They aren’t captive, but he can get to them, and I know he will if I become a problem. He’s shown me how and all his methods are foolproof.”

Mark leaned against the wall. “So he has trapped you, too?”

Morana nodded. “He’s covered his bases well. When you interest him, he researches you and uses anything and everything to control you. Captive loved ones are a favorite tool of his. Some of the Trail Bladers buy into his bullshit completely and are brainwashed—if he’s been able to crack them psychologically. But for others, his grip is coercive. It works. They are scared to death to cross him. He has no boundaries when it comes to reaching his goals—and results are all that matter to him.” Morana looked at her phone. “We have to get to 2nd Street.”

They hurried the few blocks to the corner of Broadway and 2nd, and found a Trail Bladers truck waiting. Temur stood behind it in a Trail Bladers uniform holding the door open. They boarded and Temur locked them in.

“To the Nest, and thanks for being fast. Where’s my delivery?”

“No problem, ma’am. Here it is.” He handed a brown bag through the cab’s partition. Mark took it. “You should see the commotion at the theater, ma’am. Police are swarming it like there was a shooting.”

“No kidding,” Morana replied.

Mark opened the bag. He saw a red pen with no wires protruding or any other sign that it wasn’t a pen. He picked it up. It felt heavier than a pen. A note taped to it said, “Twist to activate. Adapter is magnetized.”

Mark showed Morana the note. She nodded and crossed her fingers. He closed the bag and smiled at Morana, saying, “I love this candy. It’s my favorite.”

Temur chauffeured them through Santa Monica’s grid of streets, most of which were now abandoned. As the truck approached the checkpoint exit to Santa Monica, Mark tapped Morana’s shoulder and pointed to his face. His hat and sunglasses were gone and he was still the most wanted person in the country.

Morana found a newspaper in the corner of the truck bed and opened it to an ink-heavy photo page. She wrapped it around her finger then smeared it again and again under Mark’s eye until it looked blackened. She opened a small tool box on the side wall and removed a rag. She ripped it into two pieces and threw half to Mark. He tied it to his head as a bandana. She folded the other piece to the size of a wallet. He pressed it over his other eye and sat back.

The truck came to a stop, and after they heard Temur giving a series of standard answers, there was a knock at the back door. Morana palmed the console and it opened. An officer swung the door wide and rested his foot on the bumper.

“Carrying any cargo today, folks?”

“No, sir. We do want to hurry, though. My coworker got banged up pretty badly after a stairwell fall.”

The officer unhitched a flashlight from his belt and shone it at Mark. “You okay, sir?”

Mark nodded, keeping the majority of his face covered and down. The officer pointed his light toward the other sections of the sparse truck bed and then yelled, “Good to go,” and he closed the door and slapped it with his hand.

They heard Temur’s phone beep, then Morana’s. After she read it, she said, “Did you get that, Temur?”

“Yes, ma’am. Should be about twelve minutes and we’ll be docked.”

Morana handed her phone to Mark. The screen read, “All Retreat, On Site, 911.”

“It’s from Pop. All Retreat means that all Trail Bladers everywhere are to return to the Nest immediately.”

“What about my mom?” Mark mouthed.

Morana leaned to him and whispered, “I guarantee that Teddy left the airport without her if her plane hadn’t landed yet. All Retreat is serious. He’ll tell her to wait for him, but it could be quite some time before he returns.”

As they pulled into the Nest’s garage, Morana held out her hand for the TellTale. Mark pointed to her and mouthed, “You?” She nodded.

He removed the TellTale from the bag and put the computer adapter in his own pocket. The truck descended into the bunker. Mark didn’t know what to expect at the bottom, but none of the possibilities were comfortable to imagine. If one of Pop’s people had taken their shirts from the theater, Mark and Morana might be greeted with Tasers and hand trucks that would take them to available oubliettes. Or worse, they could be escorted directly to the Gullet. As the truck touched down, Morana squeezed her eyes shut as if in desperate prayer.

She put her hand on the exit console, but the truck’s rear door would not open. Temur came around and opened it from the outside. He waited beside the truck while Mark and Morana exited.

As they entered the foyer, they both stopped, shocked at what they saw. Morana covered her mouth and Mark’s mouth fell open.

The massive mural of Mark was gone. It had been replaced with another one, showing Pop lying on the ground in the garb of a homeless person and amidst the tables of an outdoor café. His legs and arms were stiff and his head was pulled back with his chin high. A brown-haired woman, in her thirties, wearing hospital scrubs, knelt beside Pop. Her mouth was planted over his. Some of the onlookers in the photo’s background showed expressions of amazement while others showed disgust. At the bottom of the photograph in white lettering was the phrase, “They still exist.”

Morana’s obvious surprise at seeing the new image fanned Mark’s panic. They both knew this development was apocalyptic.

Mark touched Morana’s arm, but she would not look at him. “Let’s go,” she said.

They went through the foyer to enter the Nest. Morana placed her hand on the console. It did not react. She lifted her hand and repositioned it on the console, but the cold glass remained dark and unresponsive.

“Try,” she said, pointing to the console. Mark placed his hand on it, but it was unresponsive to Mark’s touch as well. When he lifted his hand, the steamed outline of his fingers faded from the glass.

“Has it malfunctioned?” Mark said.

“That would be a first,” Morana said. “Bracks doesn’t make mistakes.”

Temur entered the foyer from the garage. As he neared them, he paused to look at the mural. “Boy, Pop knows how to find ‘em!” He palmed the console, it flashed and the door clicked open. There was nowhere for them to run or hide. Proceeding with their plan was the only option.

They followed Temur into the Nest.

Pop stood in the hallway. He looked at Morana and said, “Follow me to my office, now. Mark, go to your suite.”

Just before they parted at a T in the hallway, Mark heard Morana sniffle and she wiped a tear.

He wondered if the console outside his suite would allow his entry. He placed his hand on it and after the familiar flash of green light, his door clicked open.

Inside, his suite looked different. Table lamps, artwork and other decorations were missing, as though movers were halfway finished. It smelled like pine cleanser. The living room sofas had no cushions on them. In the den, no magazines decorated the coffee table and there were no TV remotes in sight.

In the kitchen, Mark opened the refrigerator. It was empty.

He went to the bedroom and found the bed stripped and bare racks in the huge empty closet. The master bath had no soap, no towels and no floor rugs.

It reminded him of his ransacked apartment after his burglary. Except, in this case, nothing was damaged; things were simply gone.

His heart pounded as he considered the implications.

He went to the giant black window panel that generated the outdoor scenery—now fully exposed because the drapes were gone. When he pushed a button to activate it, there was nothing. It was as though the Nest itself had begun to shun him—to deprive him as if he were fodder.

He went back to the front door and pressed it to leave his suite, but it was locked from the outside. All doors in the offices and suites of the Nest required console entry, but exit had always been unhindered, activated by the touch of a hand on the knob.

He pressed the door hard and then slammed it with this shoulder. He realized that he would not be leaving the suite until Pop was ready for him to leave. He was terrified.

He heard a beep from the den and went to it. He had left his Trail Bladers phone on a sofa. He flipped it open. A text message read “All Retreat, Meeting location: Mulching Room, 5:30 pm, Mandatory.” It was 4:49pm.

Mark dropped the phone on the floor. He clutched his head in his arms and began to pace, trying to hold on to logical thought. There was no time to use the TellTale, and little question that his plan had been discovered. He and Morana were doomed.

At 5:10 the door to Mark’s suite opened and Teddy leaned in. “Pop wants you in his office,” he said.

Mark walked slowly toward the open door. The walk felt like a death march. As he passed Teddy, he noticed something different in his face. It was a coldness—a contempt. Teddy watched Mark closely and seemed to be seething. He followed Mark from a few paces behind, ensuring that Mark reached Pop’s office.