The Everything Box (15 page)

“We're not sure,” said Adept Six. “We need to get it looked at. It might be another clue. Or just a piece of Frank's liver.”

That's when Acolyte Three's stomach let go.

THE BEVERLY CENTER MALL SAT AT THE CORNER OF
Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega, on the edge of Beverly Hills in that magical land where residents shopped purely by designer names and not prices. People caught looking at price tags were shunned and, while not physically exiled, mentally dispatched to the same shadowy hinterlands reserved for tourists in flip-flops, accordions, and pre-Dorothy flying monkeys.

When Coop finally exited the Beverly Center, he was both happy and a little shell-shocked. Coop was a price tag looker, and every salesperson in the Center spotted him as one the moment he entered. His clothes were ill-fitting enough that, at best, he'd borrowed them. At worst, he'd held up a Goodwill and stolen the first few things he'd seen on the sales rack. If Coop had known any of the rules of the upscale he might have done what any sensible person in his position would do: stand in the mall's atrium and shout, “I'm an ex-con with money. Dress me for adulthood.” At least being a jailbird would have given him the exotic frisson of a Tibetan mastiff puppy or an Abyssinian cat, because there's nothing people with money like to do more than dress up their expensive pets. But Coop didn't know
any of this, so he slunk around different men's boutiques, fingering fabrics he'd only heard about in legends, gasping at prices he thought must be in pesos, not dollars, and generally revealing himself to be everything the Beverly Center hated: a reminder that while they were near Beverly Hills, they weren't quite in it, so the broke and the clueless could invade their space at will.

But Coop
was
a jailbird and had done enough time to stroll through other people's loathing without giving much of a shit. And it gave him pure pleasure to watch salespeople's attitudes do a 180 when he pulled out a pile of the cash payoff he'd received from Mr. Babylon.

In the end, even with security guards following him around every store and salespeople giving him the side eye, he walked out of the Beverly Center with two suits, a couple of extra shirts, and a pair of Italian shoes. He didn't quite have the heart to wear either of the suits yet, but after some encouragement from a pretty saleswoman, he'd put on the shoes, a pair of new slacks, and one of the extra shirts. Coop felt like a million bucks as he stood on Beverly Boulevard looking for a cab. He felt slightly less so when a black windowless van pulled up and a man with a gun motioned for him to get inside. Coop was a sensible crook and knew that if he made a break for it in brand-new leather-soled shoes on pavement he was probably going to end up flat on his ass. And maybe with a bullet in the back. So, he did what any sensible crook would do. He got in the van.

Inside, the man with the gun slammed the van door closed and knocked the packages out of Coop's hands.

“Turn around,” he said.

Coop did it and felt a blindfold going over his eyes. Then the gunman turned Coop back around and pushed him into a seat across from him. Before the lights had gone out, Coop had seen a young woman in sensible office attire. She didn't look like quite as big a creep as the guy with the gun. When she finally spoke she said, “Would you state your name for the record?”

“Wait,” Coop said. “You kidnapped me and you don't know who I am?”

“I just need to verify your identity.”

“In that case, I'm Benjamin Harrison, twenty-third president of the United States.”

“Please be serious. It will make things easier for everyone, including you.”

“Is this a gag?” Coop said, starting to get angry. Then his guts went cold. “Are you working for Eddie?”

“Who's Eddie?” said someone Coop assumed was the gunman.

“Never mind. My poodle groomer. Who are you?”

“Your new best friends.

“If that's the case, why don't you take this blindfold off and we can all have a group hug?”

“Not a chance, sugar pants.”

Coop took a deep breath. He hated being this freaked out, but he knew not to show it. He tried to think of something brave to say, but instead all he could croak was, “You sure you're not with Eddie?”

“Is your name Charles Cooper, no middle name?” said the woman.

“No middle name. That's me.”

He could hear her typing something into a laptop. When she was finished she said, “Why don't we take off the blindfold? The van is blacked out and he's going to see us soon enough.”

“I've already seen you,” Coop said.

“See? He's already seen us.”

The gunman sounded annoyed. “You suck the fun out of everything.”

“He thinks we're here to kill him. That's not a good way to begin a business relationship,” said the woman.

“That's what I'm talking about right there. Work, work, work. I bet when you saw
Star Wars
all you thought about was Darth Vader's quarterly review. He lost the princess. He choked an officer.”

“Well, he did let the Death Star get blown up,” said the woman.

“See? I knew it.”

“Please take it off him.”

“Fine. But only because I know you won't shut up about it.”

“Thank you.”

The man jerked Coop's head forward and began fiddling with the
blindfold knot. While he did it Coop said, “I know a good marriage counselor in the Valley if you kids want to make a stop.”

Finally, the blindfold came off and the gunman shoved Coop back in his seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. “Shut up and go back to worrying about your poodle,” he said.

“He's man's best friend,” Coop said. He studied the cuffs. They looked well made, with hard locks to pick.

The gunman shook his head. “No. This is man's best friend.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a drink.

“Mind if I have a snort, seeing as how we're all friends?” Coop held out his hands.

The man with the gun smiled at him and took another drink.

“Why not let him have a little?” said the woman. “It might calm him down.”

The gunman thought about it and finally handed Coop the flask. He held it up in a toast and then began to drink. It was bourbon. Good stuff, too.

“Hey, Mr. Greedy, that's enough. We share around here,” said the gunman. When he came forward to take the flask out of Coop's cuffed hands, Coop spit a mouthful of whiskey directly into the gunman's eyes. He screamed and wiped at his face with his hands. Coop kicked him on top of the woman, grabbed the sliding door handle, and pulled it open. He didn't know how fast they were going or where they were. It looked suburban and upscale. Coop jumped onto a grassy patch near the curb and rolled as best he could. When he scrambled to his feet, he took off running across a series of impossibly green lawns.

He made it down past a couple of houses and turned abruptly when he saw an open door to a backyard. He ran through. A family—a father, mother, and two kids, a boy and a girl—were having a barbecue. Coop didn't stop. Neither did the father, flipping burgers as he watched Coop, who jumped up the back fence and pulled himself over as gracefully as he could with his handcuffs.

It wasn't all that graceful. He landed on his back. Something behind him squeaked. Coop reached under a butt cheek and came
up with a dog's rubber chew toy. A really big one. He wondered what the hell kind of mutant mutt would find a toy like that fun and not just a taunt. He got his answer when said mutt lumbered out of its doghouse and stretched. It was a Rottweiler with a head the size of a Honda Civic.
Okay, it's big. No problem. Stay low. Move slow. I'm not any threat. That's right. You keep stretching there, buddy.
But when the dog turned in his direction and growled, Coop forgot about the Civic.

This thing was a Humvee with shark teeth.

Coop got up slowly, holding his hands before him where the dog could see. He crept across the yard in the direction of the house, saying, “Good dog. Nice puppy,” over and over. He concentrated on walking because when he didn't, he imagined himself in pieces in the dog's stomach with nothing but his anklebones sticking out of five-hundred-dollar Italian shoes to mark his grave.

He couldn't help thinking about a dragon in a wall he once knew . . .

Something thumped to the ground behind him. He turned and saw the gunman touching down, the woman close behind him. The dog seemed confused by these new intruders and Coop tried to take advantage of the moment to move a little faster. But the dog's confusion didn't last long. Coop was the original interloper and the monster pooch turned and laser-focused its attention on him. Finally Coop broke into a run.

He didn't stand a chance.

The dog hit him between the shoulders and drove him facefirst into the grass. With the wind knocked out of him, Coop couldn't do anything but lie there. A second later, the dog flopped on top of him like a two-hundred-pound bag of furry cement. A minute after that, he felt the beast being rolled off him. He rose to his knees and took a deep breath. No cracked ribs. No chunks of flesh missing. He looked at the dog on its back beside him, a tranquilizer dart in its neck. The woman put a tranq pistol into a holster under her jacket. The gunman hauled him to his feet and perp-walked him to the fence. The man went over first. The woman indicated for Coop to go next, and she brought up the rear.

The two agents, cops, or kidnapper hobbyists—Coop still hadn't decided which—took him back the way they'd come.

“Looks good,” Coop said to the family as the father took a pile of burgers and hot dogs off the grill. None of them said anything. Coop was manhandled back into the van and it took off.

Once they got moving again, the gunman said, “You tell anyone you took a runner and I'll make sure you're eaten by a spider.”

“Sounds like a big spider,” said Coop.

“Remember that dog?

“Yes.”

“Bigger.”

Coop spit out some grass that had gotten lodged between his teeth. “Do they let you make decisions like that? I get the feeling you're the kind of guy if I asked for a decaf, you'd bring me galoshes.”

The woman covered her mouth and tried to suppress a laugh. The gunman shot her a look.

“We've got a world of fun waiting for you, pal. You messed up good.”

“Thanks. I wouldn't have known if you hadn't explained it to me,” Coop said. He looked at the floor where the man's feet rested near his new clothes. “Please be careful. Most of that stuff is brand new.”

The gunman slid open the van door and kicked out the clothes. “Run free, little shirts,” he called after them.

Coop looked at him. “Do you know how hard I worked for those clothes?”

“Yep.”

“Just checking.”

The woman was giving the gunman a disgusted look. “If it's any consolation,” she said to Coop, “you're going to get to leave. I have to work with him every day.”

“You must spend a lot on Zantac.”

“As much as my rent.”

“You're both breaking my heart,” said the gunman. “And for the record, smart guy, you killed my shirt with the little spitting stunt back there, so I think we're about even.”

“I'm being kidnapped and was almost eaten by a T. rex. I don't think we're even close to even,” said Coop.

The woman shook her head. “This isn't really a kidnapping. Think of it as aggressive job recruitment.”

“Don't tell him anything else,” the gunman said.

“What kind of benefits?” said Coop.

“What?”

“The recruitment. How much vacation time? You have a dental plan? Stock options?”

“There's only one benefit. I don't shoot you.”

“That's a good one,” said Coop.

“I thought you'd like it.”

Coop sat back as the van rumbled on to wherever the hell it was rumbling to. There wasn't anything he could do about it. He went back to trying not to look scared. In fact, he was less anxious than he had been a few minutes before. He'd run and hadn't been shot. They'd even saved him from being devoured by Cujo. They obviously wanted him for something. He hoped it was something he could handle. He felt bad because one bag of clothes the shithead kicked out of the van had been the ones he borrowed from Morty. He considered for a minute whether that made up for Morty ratting him out and landing him in jail.

Nope, he decided. But it was close.

They drove for another thirty minutes. The gunman kept his pistol aimed at Coop the whole time.

“Your bosses don't mind you pointing guns at people when you're half crocked?” Coop said.

The gunman took another drink. “It cuts down on the office riffraff.”

“Do they have a special form for when you shoot your dick off?”

The woman snickered again. She pecked at her laptop. Coop quickly went from panicky to nervous to bored.

Finally, the van slowed, made an abrupt left turn, and went down a short incline before stopping.

“We're here, Cinderella. Time to meet your prince,” said the gun
man. He slid the side door open and stepped down. All Coop could see was what looked like an underground parking garage. Yellow lines on the ground spaced a few feet apart. Other vans. Concrete support columns. He stepped out and the woman followed.

“Pull a runner here, pal, and I'll be the least of your worries,” said the gunman.

“In the future, you should say that with a Clint Eastwood squint. It'll scare more rubes.” Yet as much as Coop lipped off, he didn't want to move. He hovered near the van and looked around. Yes, it was nothing but an underground parking lot. He was both relieved and disappointed. After all the drama, he'd expected a secret lair in a dormant volcano or an abandoned missile silo. This looked like the basement of a Walmart. At least it wasn't a police station. He'd been in enough of those that he could smell them.

“Where are we?” said Coop.

“Disneyland. Be good and I'll let you take a picture with Daffy Duck.”