Prey for Us

by Geoffrey Neil

  “I’m impressed. Feels nice in here,” Morana said, as she moved to the edge of the room.

  “It is nice in there.” Clay laughed. “The air conditioning is pushing through a carbon filtration system layered with state-of-the-art ionizers and Ozonators. By the time any air in that room leaves the house, it’s cleaner than the air in a surgery room. All the environmental control equipment is in a room behind the door to your right.”

  Morana sidestepped through the plants toward the hum of machinery behind a door. “Nice setup,” she said. “Clever.”

  “If you had dated me, you could have had a piece of this.”

  “My loss,” Morana shrugged.

  Clay laughed, “I live down there when I’m home, which is not often lately.”

  “Interesting hobby, Clay,” she said. “I can’t say I’m totally surprised.”

  “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment. It hasn’t taken off yet, but it will. I’m doing what I can to fund a decent retirement.”

  “Who tends to it while you are gone?”

  “I do. It’s all automated. If I have a serious power or water problem, I have a contact who can stop by to take care of things. That hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Was it Benny?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Take a look inside the cabinet on the far wall.”

  Morana went to it and opened a gun vault with what looked like thirty long guns in rows, cable-locked through their trigger housings. Below them was a large assortment of pistols, also locked. “Nice. Why are you letting me see all this?”

  “So you’ll trust me. Is it working?”

  Morana looked around the room and then up to the opening in the ceiling as the rope ladder swayed in the breeze. “I’m encouraged.”

  “That answer is good enough. You want work? From what I’m seeing on the news, you’re definitely between jobs.”

  “I do appreciate yet another job offer from you, but this isn’t my type of gig, Clay.”

  “The weed is nothing compared to the gigs you’ve been playing.”

  “What I did wasn’t dirt. It was for a good cause.”

  “You killed. That’s not dirt?”

  “Don’t lecture me.”

  “Fine. Believe it or not, I have something to show you that’s much bigger than you can imagine and the timing is perfect.”

  “No more money schemes, Clay.”

  “It’s not a scheme, I swear. I’m gonna blow your mind. If you come to Florida and give me a chance, you can use my car.”

  “I don’t want to fuck you, Clay.”

  “I’m not talking about that. Seriously, there’s something spectacular I want to show you. I swear it will be worth your while.”

  “Clay, you know I hate surprises.”

  “I’ll make a deal. If you see this and aren’t as excited about it as I am, I’ll give you my car. I’ll sign over the damned title to you. As America’s most wanted, you’d be smart to leave the state, anyway.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “Number 159. Under the stalk.”

  Morana walked along the narrow aisle until she came to the #159 sticker on the side of a plant. She wormed her finger into the dirt and pulled out a plastic case and pulled the car key from it.

  “Thanks,” she said, holding it up for Clay to see.

  “Good. Hold on a minute,” Clay said.

  A printer connected to a computer in the corner of the room startled Morana when it hummed to life and spit out a piece of paper. She picked it up.

  “That’s my address,” Clay said. “There’s some more cash for gasoline in the bottom drawer of the computer desk.”

  “Thanks,” Morana said.

  “Mo, listen to me. I can’t over-hype this. You need to get here.”

  “Don’t beg.”

  “I’m never going to see you or my car again, am I?”

  Morana blew the camera a kiss.

  Chapter 3

  FIVE DAYS LATER when Clay arrived at his apartment, he pulled his briefcase from the back seat of his car. A voice behind him said, “Hi, stranger.”

  He turned and saw a tall blonde woman with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She wore a black leather jacket, jeans, sunglasses, and an unmarked black baseball cap pulled low.

  He frowned and said, “Can I help—” but then smiled. “Mo?”

  “I thought you’d be happier to see me,” she said.

  Clay grinned. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “You should have expected me.”

  “Not so soon.”

  “I made good time. It wasn’t exactly a leisurely drive.” She pulled the brim of her hat down lower. “Can we finish chatting inside?” She pointed to Clay’s apartment building.

  As they climbed the steps to the second level, Clay said, “Why won’t you answer my calls. You’re using a goddamn burner phone I sure as hell can’t trace.”

  “I wouldn’t bet that you couldn’t. If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t ignoring your calls. I dumped that burner phone in Phoenix.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to profile a few of your neighbors while waiting for you to get home.”

  Clay laughed as he opened the door for her and looked her up and down as she passed by with her fingers tucked into her pockets. She dropped her duffel bag to the floor beside the door.

  Clay opened his arms to hug her. She passed by him and went to his kitchen. “I’ve been dreaming about your shower,” she said, walking to the hallway.

  “That’s flattering. The bathroom’s that first door.”

  Morana came back for her bag. Clay followed her into the hallway. “I put fresh linen on our bed.”

  Morana stopped in the bathroom doorway and rolled her eyes at him.

  “I only have one bed—I’ll be good.”

  “Your sofa will be a luxury for me.” She stepped past him to look into a small, second bedroom that Clay had set up as an office. A desk held two computers and a laptop, a printer and several other devices with flashing lights. She returned to the bathroom, gave herself a disgusted look in the mirror before swiping her finger across each eyelid. She twiddled her fingers in a wave as she closed the door. After a shower, she emerged wearing a mocha colored v-top under a jean jacket and black leggings. She came out into the front room while leaning to the side, finger-combing her wet hair.

  Clay got up from the sofa where he had been watching TV.

  “Feel better?”

  “A hundred percent,” she slurred with a hair band pinched between her lips. “Have I told you how much I hate sleeping in cars?”

  “Well, this extended-stay corporate housing isn’t exactly palatial, but I’m glad I could solve that problem for you.”

  “Thank you—I mean it,” she said, flipping her hair back and pulling it into a ponytail.

  “My pleasure.” He looked her up and down. “Nice outfit. I see you made time to shop on your trip.”

  Morana shook her head. “I grabbed these at a yard sale outside Pensacola. You know I hate shopping—except for guns.” She looked down at herself.

  Clay nodded with approval. “Is that what my Bitcoin got you?”

  “Look, I’ll pay you back.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “Then why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Because—look at you… You’re hot.”

  Morana sucked her teeth. “So, tell me more about this new pyramid scheme you want to rope me into?”

  “Keep on joking, Mo. I made a couple of calls while you were in the shower. Now that you’ve brought me my own car, I can return my crappy rental. After that, I got the okay to show you something special at 6 o’clock.”

  “What is it?”

  Clay leaned against the door frame. “I’m not going to tell you ahead of time, but my offer to giv
e you my car if you aren’t impressed stands.”

  Morana put on some lipstick and rubbed her lips together. “I accept the offer.”

  †

  On the drive to Clay’s mystery destination, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and occasionally grinned at Morana.

  “What?” she asked. “Am I overdressed?”

  “Not at all. I’m going to introduce you to maybe the most reclusive guy you have ever met.”

  “I like him already,” Morana said.

  “His name is Thane Sykes. He’s young, probably early twenties. He’s one of those mad genius types. If I’m right about this, you’ll blow his mind, and what he can do will blow yours.”

  “What does he do?”

  “If we’re lucky, he’ll demonstrate for you. He’s got a house, but spends most of his time in the garage tucked in back that he’s converted into a workshop. He invited me over last week, and he showed me one of his projects. Mo, I’m still stunned by what he showed me.”

  “Does it involve guns?”

  “No.”

  “Computers?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you know him?”

  “He’s my boss’s nephew. Occasionally, my boss makes Thane come to the office to run errands and do other odd jobs. He forces him to walk around the office and ask every employee if they want their car washed. He might be one of those savants because I swear to God the poor guy looks tortured having to talk to people. By the end of each visit, you can see in his face how badly he wants to get away.”

  “And you think he’ll be okay with me because…”

  “Just listen, so anyway, about the third time he came to the office, I felt sort of bad for him, so I decided to try to be cool with him—you know—friendly. He seems sensitive to everything, so I make sure not to shake his hand. I don’t force him into conversation like the others do. I always tip him real good when he washes my car. Last month I gave him car wash money and whispered, ‘Skip my car, but tell your uncle you did it.’ I actually got a faint smile from him for that. Now when he visits the office, he comes to my desk first.”

  Morana kicked off her shoes and crossed her feet on the dash. “Would you just tell me what he showed you already?” she said.

  “Hold on—we’re almost to his place. A couple of weeks ago, his uncle sent him to the printer to pick up an order of brochures for a corporate Egypt tour we booked for a client. So, I’m down in the parking garage helping him transfer these boxes to my car. When we loaded the last box, I thanked him. Then he points to one of the brochures taped to the side of the box in my trunk and says, ‘I know how they did that.’ I couldn’t believe he initiated a conversation, so I said, ‘You know about 4-color offset printing?’ He says, ‘No, those.’ He taps his finger on two pyramids on the brochure. I laughed. He gets all serious and says, ‘I’m not kidding,’ like I had offended him. I said, ‘I’m sorry, buddy. You know how they built the pyramids?’ He looks around to make sure no one is watching, pulls a crumpled photograph from his pocket. Mo, I swear on my mama’s life I damn near fainted.”

  “What was it?” Morana yelled, smacking Clay with the back of her hand.

  “You’ll see in a minute—I hope.” Clay wrung the steering wheel as he turned onto another street. “So Thane invites me to his place to see this thing he showed me. I wonder why he’s so open with me, and when I get there he tells me he’s in some sort of trouble, and he’s afraid to tell his uncle. Apparently, he got in an accident with his truck a few months ago. He had no insurance. The guy he hit drives a Maserati and hired a pit bull of a lawyer, and they’ve been harassing him for money to cover property damage and medical treatment for injuries that Thane says would have been impossible. So now these bastards are threatening to sue him. I can pretty much guarantee you that speaking publicly in a court of law would probably make his list of top three worst nightmares. This legal problem has him worried sick, and he’s freaked out that his uncle will find out.”

  “Why?”

  “The boss can be tough with all the staff, but who knows how he is with family? I told Thane I would see what I could do to help him.”

  Morana smiled. “So, you’re bringing me here for charity work?”

  “Not at all. Mo, I’m telling you that when you see what he does, you’ll know an accident settlement will be the last thing he needs to worry about. Trust me.”

  Clay turned onto a residential street lined with bungalows. “His place is right up there,” Clay said pointing. “I need to tell you some ground rules for this meeting.”

  Morana smiled. “You’re going to tell me how to behave?”

  “I’m serious—Thane is sensitive. Offend him, and he’ll clam up, and we won’t see anything—probably ever.”

  “Fine. What are your rules?”

  “Don’t force him to talk to you. He doesn’t like to talk. Don’t touch anything. He hates that. We’ll leave our phones by the door. He hates electronics and is worried someone will record what he does. Keep your hands in plain sight.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “Quit joking. Just smile, nod and be polite, alright?”

  Morana gave Clay a long look and said, “Could he recognize me?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Morana winced.

  “He hates the news, and he doesn’t care about money, does that help?”

  “Okay,” Morana said. “As long as you understand that if he recognizes me, I’ll know it and I’ll have to kill him.”

  “Quit fucking around, Mo.” Clay turned the car into a driveway.

  “I’m not kidding,” Morana said. “I can’t believe I agreed to let you drive me to a mysterious location. If you’ve arranged an ambush, I’ll make you sorry before they take me.”

  Clay drove slowly along the narrow driveway that flanked the house. The headlights lit up a pergola wrapped with a blanket of honeysuckle thick with white and yellow blossoms. As they passed through it, thick foliage scraped the car before opening like a stage curtain to the rear of the property. A fenced-in backyard contained several solar panels angled upward on stands in the center amidst untended grass and weeds. The driveway led to a detached garage opening to a space wide enough for no more than two parallel cars. A small red pickup truck was parked outside the garage’s roll-up door.

  Although there was room to park beside the red truck, Clay chose to park in the driveway beside the rear corner of the house. “C’mon,” he said, getting out.

  Morana stayed in the car, craning to look around with her hand tucked into her bag.

  Clay came around to her side and thumped the window. “Would you relax? C’mon. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.”

  She got out, and they walked to the garage entry door. Clay knocked. The words Go Away were almost completely worn from a grass doormat.

  While they waited, Morana kept her back to the garage, scanning the property behind the house. Trees and hedges on all sides of the backyard obscured it from the neighbors. Weather-worn paint that used to be white curled from the exterior walls of both the house and garage. All the windows were covered from inside, and one of them was cracked. A few weeds had pushed through the cracked asphalt in front of the garage door.

  The space in front of the garage was too narrow for the red truck to turn around, and dark tire marks ran the length of the driveway showing where the old pickup truck had regularly backed to its position at the garage door.

  “It actually looks like a place where a genius would live,” Morana said.

  “Wait until you see the inside—if he lets us in… Thane, buddy, it’s me…” Clay knocked again and used his fingernail to scrape some rust from the door hinge.

  Morana moved closer to the truck to examine it. A small Chevy at least fifteen years old and decorated with plenty of dents, dings, and mismatched tires. She dropped to one knee and looked underneath, noticing a small pool of liquid below it. In the truck’s b
ed, some metal poles were tied in a bundle and tucked neatly beside a chain wrapped around a wooden dowel. Water beaded on a black bed liner, likely explaining the puddle beneath the truck.

  When Morana came back to where Clay stood, the small garage door opened a few inches revealing darkness inside.

  Clay put his mouth to the opening. “Thane? It’s me.” His voice echoed. There was no answer. Clay eased the door open and leaned in. “Thane?” He motioned for Morana to follow and they stepped inside and stopped.

  A single bright light bulb hanging from the opposite side of the garage lit the wide-open space of a pristine workshop. On the far side, clean countertops were below screwdrivers, hammers, crescent wrenches, and other simple tools that were wall-mounted with perfect spatial precision and sorted by size. The bulb hung from a long wire that extended up into the exposed wooden ceiling beams.

  Clay and Morana stood on a large black area rug embroidered with images of golden padlocks. Cabinets lined the full length of the back wall. On the wall opposite the entrance, more cabinets hung over a long clean work surface.

  A variety of decorative doors hung on the walls of the shop in a tapestry, each door with a chain and key hanging from its knob. Contemporary doors, painted in bright colors, contrasted with a variety of polished antique styles.

  Below the light bulb, a small black man stood beside a waist-high cube positioned like a desk. He wore khaki pants, a dark green polo shirt, and an afro picked and shaped to a perfect sphere. He leaned with both hands onto the block examining some papers spread out on it.

  Morana started to move toward the man.

  Clay grabbed her arm. “Thane, hey buddy,” he called out. “You had me worried for a minute when you didn’t answer! I thought you had forgotten we were coming.”

  Thane briefly raised his head and looked over silver-rimmed rectangular glasses.

  Clay cleared his throat. “I brought my friend. Is it okay if we come over there?”

  Thane gave a slight nod before returning his attention to the papers.

  Clay pointed to a small table beside the front door that held a small plastic bowl. He fished his phone from his pocket and dropped it into the bowl. “Put your phone in there.”