Dire Means (29 page)

When the roundups ended after two days, the homeless began to reappear on the streets. Many of the released suspects cowered in the shadows of alleys. Normally on watch for danger or theft of their meager possessions, the risk of police interrogation was worse. They now lived afraid of the public’s intensified fear of the homeless.

Somewhere on these streets, a killer masqueraded as one of them and filmed examples of their treatment. Ironically, they had become suspects in crimes intended to help them. They had no way of knowing that the city's terror was inflicted on their behalf and that their suffering would end.

§

Ryan Thesan and Gil Dubert couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make some easy cash. Both in their early thirties, they made money as street vendors who peddled a variety of goods based on season and public demand. Their busiest, most profitable time of year began in late November when they sold Christmas trees on a lot in Venice, two miles south of Santa Monica’s southern border. In a good year, their Douglas Firs netted sixty grand in profit from two and a half months of work on their leased half-acre lot.

Before a rare rainstorm, they split up, each working the corner of a busy intersection selling umbrellas. They opened and twirled the colorful umbrella canvasses for passing motorists who waited in their cars for traffic signals to change. North and southbound traffic in Santa Monica experienced long waits between lights and these entrepreneurs knew it. “Curbside signs work better than any yellow page ad we could run,” Ryan would say to Gil—proud of his marketing discovery.

A good season for the Lakers could net them a grand per week in t-shirt and car-flag sales. If the Lakers made the playoffs, they could net the grand daily—if they split up and sold in two locations.

Ryan was the brain behind their operations. He had a keen eye for L.A. trends while Gil maintained a vast list of vendors and contacts that could provide any product, wholesale and at lightning speed.

Fear and disaster were wonderful engines for their wares. After the Northridge earthquake of 1994, the duo made a small fortune selling ready-made earthquake survival kits priced just below gouging. They set up table booths at busy intersections near some of the hardest hit neighborhoods. The timeliness of their wares generated good profits. “For quakes you gotta have your goods ready for sale before the first aftershock if you want to cash in on the sweet fear dough,” Ryan once explained to a reporter who found his booth while covering a recent quake’s aftermath.

As people began to disappear in Santa Monica, Ryan and Gil followed the news, sensing that this new wave of public fear was somehow laced with huge untapped profit. The citywide paranoia had something to offer them, but a solid idea hadn’t struck them yet. The disappearances were so mysterious that Ryan and Gil had the rare dilemma of not knowing what to sell. They couldn’t sell an antidote to a terrified public if the enemy was completely unknown.

Ryan sat on his sofa, checking messages on his laptop when an email from Gil popped into his Inbox: “Video found on second abduction victim.” Ryan clicked the link and the video began to play, showing the jerky black and white image of Brandon Chargon sitting in his Ford Fairlane, middle finger extended toward the camera. The camera wobbled toward Brandon and his voice was heard saying, “Hell no. You should pay
me
for having to look at you.”

Ryan paused the video and nibbled his cheek as he thought. He jumped up from the sofa and ran for his phone that sat on the kitchen counter. He pressed speed dial for Gil.

“Bingo,” he said when Gil answered. “We got us some kind of homeless vigilante on the loose. Let’s do yellow safety placards for cars… I think five thousand to start… No, it’s not too many. If I’m right then we’ll move that inventory in two days… Call Signs Plus and see if they’ll do us a wholesale deal—make ‘em say, ‘I Love the Homeless’… What do you mean they won’t buy it?... Okay fine, make it ‘Homeless Friendly.’ Also get a vinyl skirt banner for a roadside booth. Make it say, ‘Show Your Love for the Homeless.’” Ryan paused for a loud cackle with Gil over the cleverness of the sign. “Get a thousand signs rushed by tomorrow and we’ll hit Colorado and 4th for a test run—just pray this guy doesn’t get caught before this weekend and we’ll do fine.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I WANT TO get back to the ALCO building as soon as possible,” Mark said when Morana offered him a quick tour of the Trail Bladers facility which they called the Nest.

In the hallway outside Pop’s office, Mark felt overwhelmed and sick to his stomach by the information he had learned. As Morana ushered him toward the garage, he stayed close to the wall and checked back over his shoulder a few times, half expecting Pop to run out of his office having changed his mind about letting Mark leave.

“You don’t listen well, do you?” Morana said.

“What? Why do you say that?”

“You still look shell-shocked and you seem ready to run at any moment, even though I promised that you are in no danger.”

“It’s just a bit much for me to take in—the news, your mission, everything.”

“I would expect you—of all people—to buy in! Wouldn’t you like to see homelessness eradicated?”

“Of course I buy in—”

“No you don’t,” Morana said. “But you will. Meanwhile, you should know that if we were going to kill you, then you would already be dead.”

Her words chilled Mark all over again.

“I know you will decide to join us—eventually. You’ll be a tremendous leader for our cause.”

“Wait a minute,” Mark said. He stopped, keeping his back to the wall. “Leader? What do you people want from me?”

Morana checked her watch and pulled him to keep him walking. “I can't tell you any more than Papa has stated. Right now, it is imperative that you return to the outside to consider our offer. I have faith that you will make the right decision. And if you do, all your questions will be answered to your total satisfaction.”

“How can I make the right decision about a job without a job description?”

Morana smiled. “You’ve heard enough to make a decision.”

They rounded a corner and Mark recognized the foyer’s black door in the distance. He remembered his bigger-than-life photo on display, featuring his near nakedness, for everyone who entered the bunker. He wondered if there might be another exit—maybe more than one.

“Where are your elevators?” he asked.

“You rode the only one we have,” Morana said.

“The truck lift?”

“Yes. It’s the only way into our facility. It’s a security measure. We have a staircase, but it is locked and only Papa has the key. He had us wall it off. Everybody who visits arrives by truck and enters through the foyer,” she said, pointing ahead to the black door.

Midway down the hall, Morana said, “Before we board the truck, please step in here with me.” She put her hand on the entry console beside a door. It clicked open. Inside a narrow office that resembled a doctor’s examining room, a Trail Blader sat at a desk and jumped to attention when he saw Morana. He beamed when he saw Mark.

“Scan him please,” Morana told the associate and pointed to Mark.

“Mr. Denny, it is an honor to meet you. May I please have your hand?”

Mark reluctantly held out his hand. Morana nodded. The associate put on a pair of latex gloves, snapping the wrist of each before taking Mark’s hand and placing it on a glass console larger than the ones used to open the facility doors. Mark saw his fingers spread on the glass. A bright flash popped underneath.

“Thank you, sir,” the associate said, holding out his gloved hand, but Mark didn’t see it because he was still blinking the flash away. Morana put her hands on Mark’s shoulders and guided him toward a tall cabinet at the back of the room.

“What was that?” Mark said.

“We are entering you into our biometric database. Your palm print will grant you access to most of the rooms in our facility,” she said.

She produced a tape measure from the cabinet above a desk, squatted, and stretched it along his inseam. She then measured his arms, waist, shoulders, and neck.

“I haven’t said I’d join you. Shouldn’t this wait?” Mark said.

“No. When you come back, you’ll have free access to our facility.”

She pointed to a metal plate in the floor and said, “Empty your pockets, take off your shoes, and step on that please.”

Mark removed his keys and wallet from his pocket and handed them to the Trail Bladers associate. He sat on the floor to pull off his shoes. The metal plate was cold under his feet and no sooner had he stepped on it when Morana said, “One hundred eighty six pounds. Thank you, we’re done.”

“Do you want a DNA sample?”

“We already have it. We'll collect it from your suite,” the associate said. Mark took back his keys and wallet from the associate. He felt resentful of their control over him.

They exited the small office and made their way to the foyer. Once again, Mark paused to gawk at the enormous mural featuring his shivering body standing next to Pop on a rooftop. He checked his watch—12:30 p.m.

In the garage, Mark saw the Trail Bladers associate who had driven them there. He stood on the truck wiping it with a fluffy white cloth. Two other associates buffed the sides of the truck until every surface shined.

Morana and Mark entered the back of the truck alone. His seat on the bench beside Morana prevented him from seeing much of anything outside the truck. He would not be privy to the location of the Trail Bladers bunker on this visit.

Mark spoke little on the ride back to the ALCO building.

“How are you feeling?” Morana asked, after they rode in silence for ten minutes.

“Look, I understand that your goal is good, but I don’t agree with how you are trying to reach it.”

“That’s why Papa has given you time to sort it out in your mind. If you join us, it will be the best decision you ever made.” She pulled a small bag out from under their bench and put it on her lap. She removed a phone like the ones Pop had left for Mark on his doormat. “We’re almost back at the ALCO building. It is very important that you keep this phone with you always.”

Mark took it and flipped it open, glanced at the missing keys, and then closed it. He placed the phone to his ear and said, “It feels like more of a short wave radio than a phone.”

Morana smiled at Mark and in a soft voice said, “Jim Kourokina is an excellent diagnostician of microelectronics.”

Mark let his arms flop down onto his lap. “What don’t you know about me?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Calm down, Mark,” Morana said. “We have observed your habits carefully in the hope that we can discover what you’ll require to join our cause. After all, control of information is our profession. We have not tampered in your life any more than your two phone calls with Pop and this visit from which we are returning you.”

“You’ve invaded my privacy, yet you tout how much you admire and respect me.”

“Listen, Mark,” Morana shifted sideways to face him. “What we have done will be justified by the result. Papa said it would be that way and he doesn’t lie. Until now, our surveillance was to gather information on you. From now on, it will protect you. I can’t explain everything to you now, but I want to encourage you to join us in changing the world.”

“You’re going to kill me if I don’t join you, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“What could you be protecting me from, then?”

Morana reached over and tapped her finger on the phone Mark held in his hand. “When you need us, use that phone.”

Mark felt the truck hit a bump—the driveway of the ALCO building’s freight dock. He heard the truck beeping as they backed to the freight dock. Morana placed her hand on the console. Then the driver swung open the back doors for them to exit.

He was free.

As Mark walked through the lobby he saw Neville at the information booth, eating a sandwich. “Thought you got lost,” Neville said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Were you up on fourteen that whole time?”

“No,” Mark answered, without slowing to chat with him.

“Now that I think about it—I probably should have called the cops. With so many folks disappearing around here, you could have been the next,” Neville joked.

Mark continued past Neville’s desk to the garage elevator and pressed the P1 button.

“Wow, your appointment must have stunk. Didn’t get the deal, eh?” Neville kept sparring.

Mark abandoned the elevator wait and exited through the stairwell door.

On his drive home, Mark slowed below the speed limit as he came to realize the weight of his predicament. His thoughts alternated between fear of his own entanglement in Pop’s diabolical plan and worry for the captive “fodder”. Having been so close to the victims—yet having no way to rescue them tormented him. Mark wondered how long Pop would be willing to wait for his decision.

He stopped at the intersection of Broadway and Lincoln. A Ford Explorer passed by with a yellow
Homeless Friendly
sign suction cupped to the inside rear window. It was reminiscent of the
Baby on Board
placards of the mid-‘80s. Mark wondered where the driver had gotten the sign.