Eats to Die For! (17 page)

“Oh, you mean that fast food chain in California?”

In California
?

Wherever I was it was not in my home state. My daylong transport to this charming prison must have been achieved via airplane. “Is that five thirty-five Pacific time?”

The man stared at me, an expression of uncertainty playing on this face. “Five thirty-five is all you need to know.”

“How about you go get one of your superiors, of which I assume there are many. Maybe they can tell me where I am.”

“You're a very negative person,” he replied. “You seriously need adjusting.”

With that he scampered away.

Okay, so if I wasn't in California, where was I? A day's transport, he said. If it was by jet, I could be in Europe, though I can't imagine how they would have gotten me through customs.

Where could one build a secret compound within the United States that would be hidden from everybody? My gut told me Colorado, but that might only be because NORAD is situated there.

I started pacing back and forth, trying to think of how I was going to get out of this one.

“Hey, Mitch,” I said aloud, “you were in stir. What did you do to pass the time?”

Told myself stories and tried not to think about how I wasn't going to get laid for a while
, Robert Mitchum's voice replied in my head.
I was able to make up for it later
.

Fine, I'd try to tell myself stories. I started with the story of a tomato walking into a detective's office, but in the stillness of the cell it did not take long for me to nearly think myself back to sleep.

Maybe there was still some residual knock-out drug in my system, or maybe I was simply reacting to boredom, like the homeless on the streets of Los Angeles, who are seen sleeping most of the day because they don't have any reasons to remain conscious.

I was brought back to alertness by the sound of my cell door being opened.

Two people entered the room, one a middle-aged fellow in what looked at first glance like a full naval uniform…blue double-breasted blazer with epaulets, white slacks and a captain's hat…and a woman I recognized immediately: the security guard from the Sherman Oaks Burger Heaven, whom I also thought I had spotted following me in the grocery store. I had not been certain at the time, but now there would seem to be little doubt. She was wearing a similar uniform to the one the man had on.

“So, which of you is the adjuster?” I asked.

“An adjustment session cannot be conducted here,” the man said. “It requires a special room with special equipment.” Then, turning to the woman, he asked: “Is this the man, Marta?”

After a second's hesitation, she said, “Yes, that's him.”

“You are certain, beyond any doubt?”

“I am indeed the man she met in the Burger Heaven,” I said. “Now that we have established that, I have a few dozen more questions of my own.”

“You would swear in a court of law that this is the man who raped you?” the guy in the uniform went on.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,
what
?” I shouted. “
Raped
her? That's bull!”

“You'd swear in court?” he asked again.

“If I had to, yes,” Marta replied.

“Very well, you may go.”

The woman exited the room, but the man remained.

“Listen, Colonel Klink,” I said, “I don't know what you think you are trying to pull here, but I never touched that woman! Good god, even if I had she probably could have killed me!”

“Gordon's judgment was right,” he replied with a smirk. “Low self-esteem.”

I assumed Gordon was the first one who showed up in the cell, though I also sensed that bit of information was going to do me precious little good.

“So what's the plan? Are you going to charge me with low self-esteem in the first degree? Or just this trumped-up rape charge?”

“We aren't charging you with anything,” he said. “We are not a court of law.”

“Just a jail.”

“A facility.”

“I don't know what country you think we're in, but you can't just abduct someone and hold them in a private jail. There are things called laws.”

“Funny you should mention country. The Temple of Theotologics is a global entity. We acknowledge that there are countries, but we don't recognize their authority.”

Crazy as a bedbug
, the voice of Peter Lorre wheezed inside my head, and I had to agree.

“Well, the people outside this facility might.”

His smirk widened as he reached behind him to open the cell door and stepped backwards through it, then closed it again. Looking through the barred window, he said: “They haven't yet.”

Then he was gone.

How in heaven's name had I gotten myself into this mess? Why was I so dangerous to the Temple of Theotologics?

Cause you know where the bodies are buried
, Charles McGraw told me, his sandpaper voice abrading my throbbing head.

But I didn't! I didn't even know
if
they'd been buried yet!

Okay, kid, how about this
? the more comforting voice of Humphrey Bogart chimed in.
They think you found the evidence.

Louie's notes? But I hadn't found them.

But they
think
you did
,
which is good and bad. Bad because you're here
,
but good because as long as they think you've got the stuff and are holding out on them, they'll keep you alive.

“So I need to carry on a bluff?” I asked aloud.

You got a better idea
?
And stop talking out loud, kid
.
This place is probably bugged, too.

That was a good point.

Okay, fine; I'd bluff and see where it got me, because like Bogie had pointed out, I didn't have a better idea.

Or any idea, for that matter. But what would I tell them? The fact that my clothes were removed while I was unconscious means they must have searched all my pockets, so if I were carrying a flash drive they would have found it.

I didn't want to think about where else they might have checked while I was in forced dreamland. So what did that leave as options? I could claim to have found the stick and mailed it to Zareh Zarian at the
Independent Journal
, stating that at this very moment he was publishing the information and reporting confirming Louie's disappearance to the police.

But if that were the case, there would be no reason for them to keep me alive. They could dispose of me and then go after Zarian.

All right, Fabrication B: I found the stick and hid it. By now, I would imagine, my office, if not my apartment as well, has been completely turned upside-down from a search, and they would have found nothing.

So the hiding place has to be off the premises. A safety-deposit box? Maybe.

But then I could be tortured until I gave up its location, which I would have to make up, because no such safety-deposit box existed.

While that sounded pretty extreme, even for someone with a weekend pass to Kafkaland, I had to anticipate every eventuality, no matter how unreal it sounded. “Flash drive…flash drive…” I muttered, then remembered Bogie's admonishment not to speak aloud.

No, that one was okay, kid
, he chimed in.
If they are listening, you've just got them to pay attention.

That assumption was borne out one long, boring hour later—or maybe it was only fifteen minutes, it was hard to tell—when Colonel Klink came back to the window.

“Good news, Mr. Beauchamp,” he said. “You have been granted a shower.” He unlocked the door and held it open. “Follow me.”

Stepping out into the hallway, I looked both ways and quickly realized there was no use in attempting to make a run for it. Uniformed guards were stationed at both ends.

I followed the man past what appeared to be two other cells before turning a corner and heading down another corridor, which terminated in a large, open shower room, the kind one might find in a public gym.

“You no longer need to wear the orange,” Klink said. “Some clothes have been placed on the bench for you. I hope they fit. There is also an electric shaver, should you wish to neaten yourself up a bit.”

“Um, no one's going to watch this, are they?”

“What a depraved notion. Are you some kind of kink as well as paranoiac, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“Since you didn't say ‘no' to my question, I'll that it as a ‘yes,'” I said, and Klink's face soured.

I waited until he closed the door to check out my new clothes—a white shirt and black slacks, of course—and examined the shaver. It was an expensive German one that took care of my stubble in short order, after which I peeled out of the jumpsuit and stepped into the shower.

Soap and shampoo had been provided, and I took ample advantage of soap, and as much advantage of the shampoo as my tender noggin would permit. Having rendered myself as pink and wrinkly as I was able to stand, I shut off the water and reached for the towel that had been provided. Once dry, I checked out the clothes, which, I was pleased to see, included underwear (though they were boxers, whereas I traditionally wore briefs…probably an homage to my days as a lawyer) and socks.

Once I was buttoning up the shirt I noticed there was a word stenciled across the front:
VISITOR
. While a bit stiff, the clothes were not uncomfortable, though the jumpsuit was better. The polished black patent leather shoes were also a bit stiff, because they were new, but they fit well enough, and were in better shape than any of my own shoes.

Maybe if I survived this nightmare I'd get to keep them as a consolation prize.

As I was combing my damp hair with my fingers, Colonel Klink returned.

“Aha,” I said, “you
were
watching.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How else would you know that I had finished showering and was dressed? You came in the exact moment I was done in here, which means you had to be spying on me.”

“You seriously need—”

“Adjusting, yeah, I know. All right, commandant, where to now?”

I was marched by Colonel Klink from the shower area to an elevator, which took us up to a much more corporate-looking floor that came complete with organizational logos on the walls—artfully designed twin “T”s that made the letters look faintly cross-like—and a conference room with a huge table and plush chairs.

I was walked past it and on to a cafeteria, whose presence I detected by the aroma before I ever saw it. I didn't want to admit it to my captors by I was starving and would probably have told them anything for a sizzling grilled cheeseburger and an ice cold root beer.

There were a handful of people inside the cafeteria, each one in a matching white-and-black uniform, though with different levels of bars above the pocket and epaulets on the shoulders.

When I entered, in the company of Colonel Klink, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at me.

“Hi, folks, I'm the new Visitor!” I called out, cheerfully, a move that earned me a strong push over to the food counter.

Whatever else one wanted to say about the Temple of Theotologics, they put on a good spread at meal time. After some deliberation, I decided on the hot roast beef sandwich with what looked like real mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, with fresh steamed green beans on the side. After receiving my plate, and a large glass of (you guessed it) root beer, I was escorted by Klink to a table.

“I hope your opinion of us has altered a little,” he said, as I sat down.

“You know, you've never told me your name,” I said, as I cut a large chunk of the hot roast beef and bread and prepared to shove it into my mouth.

“Dan,” he replied.

After swallowing the mouthful, and finding it almost insanely good, I said, “Well, Dan, I really try to make it a personal point not to diss people who give me food. I'm not going to have to pay for this, am I?”

He smiled. “Not in terms of money, no.”

“There you have it then. Once I get out I will tell anyone that the headquarters of the Temple of Theotologics, if that is in fact where I am, has the best chef of any church I've ever been to, and that includes Church's Fried Chicken.”

“You enjoy being glib, don't you?”

How strange he should ask. Even stranger was that, thanks to plunging over a cliff with Ann Savage, I could actually answer him.

I swallowed another bite and said, “Well, Dan, it's funny, but I really don't. Since everyone I've met here has taken an interest in improving my character, let me help you by providing a little insight into it. See, some people when they're frightened get nervous or sweat, or maybe begin stuttering, but not me. I become glib. Don't ask me why, because I never knew this about myself until a very short time ago. But thinking back over all the times that I've said the wrong thing in a touchy situation, things I hadn't really intended to, I now have to admit it's true. It's a defense mechanism, I guess. So if you get an attitude from me, that means I'm really scared witless, and since fear is a sensation that I don't particularly care for, I have to say that no, I don't enjoy being glib.”

Dan smiled and seemed to puff up a bit, as though my confession of being scared was all the nourishment he required at the moment, like every other psychic vampire.

“
I
make you fearful, don't I?”

If that's what he wants, kid, give it to him
, Bogie instructed me.
You can always take it away later
.

“You?” I looked down at my plate and took a big dramatic breath, hoping I wasn't overdoing it so much as to get another critical review from Gary Cooper.

“You make me feel less than comfortable, Dan. I'm sorry. I hope you won't take my food away for saying that.”