Torn (22 page)

Weems nods solemnly. “Barbara—she was Jedediah’s birth mother—as I recall she was perfectly frantic at the time. Arthur insisted on the full twelve hours. The exercise was really as much about Barbara as it was the baby, of course. Arthur firmly believed that the mother-child bond often does more harm than good, in terms of self-actualization. He’s a man of immense, unshakable willpower. Or he was until recently.”

The strange little man’s indifference to the notion of tormenting a child to prove a point drives me wild. Especially because that tormented baby was my own husband. It’s all I can do not to leap out of my chair and slap the complacent expression off his homely face. “I was wrong about you people,” I say, practically spitting out the words. “You’re not just greedy and selfish, you’re unspeakably cruel! This great man you so admire. You know what he did? When a homesick boy wrote home from boarding school, saying that he loved and missed his parents, his father cut him off. Told him love was weakness, and that he was not to contact his mother again until he’d grown up.”

“Granted, that may have seemed cruel at the time. But in the long run—”

“In the long run,
what?
” I interrupt, almost shouting. “In the long run Jed’s mother died! He never saw her again. And his father never even bothered to let him know she was dying. That’s the man you admire. That’s the man you revere. A monster!”

Weems studies me, as if aware that he’s miscalculated. “You’re angry,” he observes. “It’s a natural enough reaction.”

“You think? Your people blow up a school, steal my son, kidnap me, all because years ago some cranky professor wrote a book on the importance of being selfish? And I dare to be angry?”

The little man regards me with great solemnity, exuding infinite patience. “No one dares to be angry, my dear,” he points out. “Anger originates in the atavistic part of the brain, not the cognitive. You can dare to risk everything, you can dare to be great, but you can’t dare to be angry or afraid. Anger and fear being linked, of course. Manifestations of the same instinct.”

I can’t stand it anymore. Leaping up, I grab the front of his shirt, yank him close, and scream into his startled face, “Give me back my baby! Give him back or I swear I’ll kill all of you!”

Then I’m flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me, held down by the Barlows, both of whom look sick with fear but nevertheless determined to protect their precious leader.

“Ruler Weems,” gasps Eldon as I squirm and struggle to get free. “Are you okay? What do we do? Tell us what to do.”

His voice is utterly calm. “Let her go.”

Instant obedience. My arms are released.

“If Mrs. Corbin wants to attack me, she is free to do so. I will not defend myself, and you will not interfere.”

Hands relaxed upon the arms of his chair, Weems awaits my reaction. I crawl to my feet, shooting venomous looks at my so-called hosts.

I’m shaking with adrenaline, so wobbly I can barely stand. “Do not speak to me of Jedediah,” I say, boring in on the strange little man. “My Jed was worth a thousand Arthur Conklins. He was good and true and loving. He was smart and funny and kind. His father tried to wreck him, but Jed couldn’t be wrecked. He had a heart of gold, and if his stupid plane hadn’t fallen out of the sky none of this would be happening. Jed would have known what to do. He always knew what to do.”

Then I’m sitting on my butt—how did that happen?—and bawling into my hands, crying for my dead husband, crying for my little boy, crying for me.

“Your husband’s plane didn’t fall out of the sky,” Weems says gently. “Not by accident. He was murdered.”

5. Gouda Like The Cheese

Shane considers himself lucky there were no Lincoln Town Cars available for rental at Denver International Airport. Indeed, his request for such a vehicle had prompted much rolling of eyes. “You’ll need the four-wheel drive,” they kept saying, and they were right; he does need the four-wheel drive. And if the Jeep Grand Cherokee feels bumpy and windblown compared to his precious Townie, it proves to be surefooted on the snow-slicked highway out of Denver.

Two hours later, on sharp curves straddling the Rocky Mountains, it’s all that keeps him from sliding off the road into a steep ditch or worse.

Having gone to college in upstate New York, Shane thought he knew about snow, but this is another world entirely. The scale here is much, much bigger. The sheer
mass of the mountains makes him feel insignificant, a bug clinging desperately to his little path in the wilderness. Plus it seems to have messed up his orientation. In the flatlands, near large bodies of water—areas like, say, the East or West Coast—he always has a pretty good sense of direction. In the midst of high mountains, with hard-blown granular snow diffusing the waning sunlight, he has to rely on the in-dash GPS unit. Couldn’t on his own have pointed north if his life depended on it.

According to the GPS, Conklin is a mere seventy miles from Denver as the crow flies. But crows don’t fly at this altitude, certainly not in this weather, and by geographical necessity the actual road distance between the two points is about double that. Snow and caution, and the desire not to plummet uselessly to his death, means that by the time Shane finally arrives at the Conklin security checkpoint, night has fallen and he’s creeping along like some old geezer in the go-around-me lane.

He powers down the window of the Grand Cherokee, grins into the chilly darkness.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to your prosperity,” the guard recites without a trace of irony. “Please state your name and your business.”

“Ronnie Gouda, like the cheese,” Shane says. “RG Paving, out of Dayton, Ohio. Here for the seminar.”

He hands over his ID and charge card—fully functional duplicates kindly supplied by Maggie Drew—and waits as the guard returns to the checkpoint, a structure that resembles one of those titanium wave-front museums by Frank Gehry. Fully illuminated, fully staffed, fully armed, the BKS logo prominent on all uniforms. Shane has seen inter
national border crossings that look less imposing. The security officers are cool and cordial, bearing no resemblance to the usual bloated rent-a-cops employed at most gated communities.

There are two lanes on either side of the checkpoint, one for civilian vehicles, the other for tractor trailers, and as Shane waits, peering through the windshield wipers, guards actually open up a trailer and inspect the cargo, carefully matching it against a manifest.

Disturbingly thorough.

A few minutes later Shane is asked to step out of his vehicle.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “I already paid for the seminar. Thought it was all set.”

The guard, a broad-shouldered young female of about thirty, gives him a thin smile. “Nothing wrong, sir. Just procedure. We need to scan your picture, issue a visitor badge, and so on. Please step out of your vehicle.”

Shane steps out of his vehicle. Shivers as a blast of wind rattles his brand-new parka. Like icy hands finding his warmer spots, making him flinch.

Inside the brightly lit checkpoint, all is well. Computer data indicates that Ron L. Gouda, having attended an introductory “What the Rule of One Can Do for You” seminar in Dayton, Ohio, and having paid in full the five-thousand-dollar nonreturnable initiation fee, has qualified for a three-day, all-inclusive Level One seminar at the Conklin Institute.

Obviously they’re not yet aware that the real Ronnie Gouda has just been secretly indicted for rigging state highway contracts, and is playing nice with his new friends in the Justice Department.

Which is a good thing. A very good thing.

Shane gets his picture snapped, is issued a clip-on face badge, plus an electronically coded card that will key open the door to something called a domicile unit.

“Domicile unit?” he asks, genuinely befuddled.

“Bed, bath, study area. You’ll find the D.U. cozy and comfortable. The code card also allows access to the Hive. That’s the cafeteria for the Level One seminars. The Hive has a four-star chef. You’re in for a treat, sir.”

“For five grand I hope so,” Shane says, playing the part of a successful, self-made contractor, figuring the guy would be just a little mouthy, a big dude used to running his own show.

The security guards don’t react to the comment, or to his attitude. No doubt they’ve heard it all before. Their vibe is professional, by the book, and Shane is thinking that if this is how they run the show in the village, breaking through security is going to be a real challenge.

“You’ll need this,” the female guard says, handing him a small plastic device. “Clip it to the visor.”

“What is it?” Shane asks innocently, although he has a pretty good idea what the device is and how it functions.

“Smart tracker,” the guard responds. “We track all vehicles within the village boundaries. No exceptions.”

“Oh yeah?” says Shane, allowing a touch of belligerence to sound in his contractor’s voice, feeling his way into the role. “What if it falls off or gets lost?”

The guard gives him a don’t-mess-with-us look. “If the signal is interrupted, that will be detected by our sensors, sounding an alarm. We are obliged to respond in force.”

“Like what, a SWAT team?”

“A little like that, yeah.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Really?”

“We take security very seriously, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

They wave him through the checkpoint.

Three miles farther on down the road, Shane comes around a steep, dramatic curve, and just as he does so the night sky clears, revealing a bright canopy of stars behind the soaring mountains.

Beautiful but a little spooky, truth to tell.

The whole village is laid out before him, subtly illuminated, as if the architects had the amazing night sky in mind. Nestled into the base of the mountain peaks is what appears at first glance to be a small college campus, attractively frosted by the recent snowfall. The Conklin Institute, no doubt. Higher up the mountainside, he can make out ski lodges and luxury condo complexes of the type he has seen in Aspen. Steep, snow-shedding metal roofs, walls of glass and shingle, some of the windows illuminated by guests-in-residence.

Road signs point him to Domicile One, situated on the lower level, directly across from the campus. Despite the name it looks very much like a chain hotel, and the folks at the front desk look like ordinary hotel employees, uniformed in sky-blue blazers, neat haircuts, and well-trained smiles.

Overnight bag in hand, Shane scuffs the snow off his boots before stepping into the lobby. Wanting the staff’s first impression of him to be favorable. Never know when you might need a favor.

“Amazing stars!” he booms, grinning heartily. “Is it always like that here?”

He presents his coded card.

“Welcome to Conklin, Mr. Gouda. May your stay be profitable.”

“Excuse me? Oh, I get it. Yeah, yeah, I hope so. That’s the idea, right?”

“They’ll explain it all at the seminar, sir.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Let me ask you, I couldn’t get a signal out there in the parking lot. Is there a problem with cell phones? I gotta make some calls.”

The desk manager, baby-faced and as generically friendly as a battery-powered puppy, smiles happily. “Cell reception is spotty, Mr. Gouda. There’s a telephone in your unit. Feel free to use it—there’s no extra charge.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Shane the contractor, thinking that a place as well-organized as this would have a cell tower if it so desired. So if visitors are being directed to a locally wired phone system, there has to be a reason. The security service likely monitors the guests’ calls. Ah, paranoia.

“The Hive opens for breakfast at 6:00 a.m. Don’t miss it—they make a mean pancake. Your seminar begins at 8:00 a.m. sharp, in Profit Hall. Just follow the signs. And a reminder—the doors to the hall close at precisely eight. No one is admitted after that, and failure to attend means your invitation will be automatically revoked.”

“Meaning I get the old heave-ho?” Shane says affably. “You folks play rough!”

“Your time has measurable worth, sir. So does ours.”

Shane shrugs. “That seems fair enough. I’ll have my butt in the seat, don’t you worry.”

The ‘domicile unit’ is, as promised, cozy, in that it’s quite small. Certainly not the typical motel room he expected. No TV, no broadband or wireless connections,
further limiting access to the outside world. The single bed is too short for his elongated frame, but he’s used to that, and in any case doesn’t expect to be getting much sleep, or to spend much time in this little room. The only entertainment on offer is a freshly minted copy of
The Rule of One,
situated on a bedside table in roughly the spot that you might find a Gideon Bible in a regular hotel chain.

He decides the room has the feel of a monk’s cell, except that he supposes monks don’t get their own showers or toilets, or fluffy fresh towels.

Shane unpacks, placing his shaving kit within reach of the shower stall and sink. He takes a long, pleasantly hot shower and then dresses in dark clothing. Figuring on taking a midnight stroll, getting a feeling for the layout of the village, maybe a sense of when the security patrols come through, and how they might be avoided. Maybe get a glimpse of the so-called Pinnacle, if the stars stay bright.