by Ryan Schow
Enigma
Ryan B. Schow
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ENIGMA
Copyright © 2017 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design
Visit the Author’s Website:
www.RyanSchow.com
See Note To Reader at the end of this book for an important message from the author, as well as a quick look at what the next book in the series holds.
Other Works of Fiction by This Author
From the Swann Series Novels (In Order)
VANNIE (PREQUEL)
SWANN
MONARCH
CLONE
MASOCHIST
WEAPON
RAVEN
ABOMINATION
ENIGMA
Warning from the Author – Read This First!
This book contains graphic subject matter and strong sexual situations, some of them influenced by a bevy of disturbing rumors floating around Hollywood involving several elite heads of the entertainment industry. My series has some pretty dark plot lines as I challenge myself to find things that truly move, scare or to some degree mortify me. Horror story clichés and “the expected” bore me; I prefer to be blindsided with something new and terrifying. It’s those big oh, shit! moments I live for. Admittedly, this emotional roller coaster ride I seek out is a bit addictive for me both as a writer and a reader. I think, to some degree, this has to do with me reading a lot of Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club, Choke, Guts).
As I’m sure you know by now, as the author of this “good vs. evil” series where both good and evil are celebrated in a literary respect, I’m always reaching for that unusual, jaw dropper of a story which has not been told.
ENIGMA is no different.
Lately there have been a startling number of actors, actresses and musicians speaking out about certain, insidious goings-on inside small pockets of Hollywood. These industry insiders and whistleblowers are saying things the logical mind says can’t possibly be true. These are unconscionable things, things you must first dismiss, if only to preserve your more vanilla views of the storied lives of our entertainment elite. To be fair to Hollywood, whether or not these alleged atrocities are true or not is immaterial to me. I am making no hard assertions. ENIGMA is, after all, a work of fiction. What matters most is that in the midst of rumor and conjecture, parts of ENIGMA were born and the path of one particular character became paved in literary ink.
To double-down on my disclaimer, I must repeat, whether certain diabolical elements in Hollywood and the music industry exist or not I can’t say for sure because I’m not personally involved in Hollywood and there has been absolutely NO proof whatsoever of wrong-doing in a court of law as of this writing. Again, ENIGMA is a work of fiction and I’m not seeking to make a political or social statement. I only want the juiciest story I can write and a lot of my ideas come from that beautiful vacuum in between absolute truth and conspiracy.
Before writing this book, I spent a lot of time debating this storyline and my willingness to run with parts of it because it is horrifying, but my villains—as always—are ugly and disturbing and should set your teeth on edge. To say I’ve been conflicted, however, is understating the facts. In the end, I sucked it up and decided to be true to my characters and the story. I trust my readers to know me by now, that this is not a Nicholas Sparks love story, a Christian tale of faith and redemption, or a PG-13 drama about the virtues of feeding the homeless and/or giving to the SPCA, or whatever. This series is about the discovery of self, the dysfunctional elite, the strain of good against evil, and action and horror. Above all, I consider myself a writer of extremes. There’s some pretty disgusting shit in this book, literally, but rest assured, I did not write this purely for shock value—there is a greater purpose for this storyline, and these difficult elements are necessary for the evolution of the characters in this series.
I confess these things not to scare you, and certainly not to hype this book; I do so to warn you ahead of time, and to perhaps to apologize in advance to my more sensitive readers who by some miracle alone made it this far without moving on already or sending me nasty emails.
Also, as a final note, I have a tremendous respect for the men and women of the FBI, specifically the Cyber Action Teams. Their incredible work is not something you see in the mainstream media but it is truly amazing to study. That said, their talent is certainly underscored by the events and personalities in Enigma, and it in no way reflects my personal opinion, which is why I am formally honoring their work here. To the brilliant minds working in cyber warfare, thank you for all you do to safeguard our privacy and our security.
This book is dedicated to those unwitting actors, actresses and musicians who made their deal with the Devil only to find themselves forced to sacrifice so much of what they once held precious.
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Table of Contents
FREE eBook: VANNIE (the Prequel)
Loose Ends
Welcome to the Blender
Potter’s Field
Black Hat
Giving up the Gravy
Welcome to the Alternate
SC-S Version 2.0
Sacrifice
Handcuffs
The Vanderbilt Literary Group
Penguin Nuts
A Treasure Trove of Secrets
From Here to There in the Pocket of Time
Black Hat Mayhem
Führerbunker
Poop Pilafs and the Wailing Infant
Enchanted Cornhole and the Temporal Fart
The Darkness Squelching the Light
DeepBallin’
Dial a Friend
Choices
The Return of the Wolf
A Word of Than
ks from the Author
Available Titles in This Series
About the Author
“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer enough and held out for the fifty cents.”
—MARILYN MONROE
Loose Ends
1
I’ve seen the future and all I can say is f*ck me. I’ve seen what I became, what I can become, and the truth is, I am frightening. And freaking awesome. Seriously. Like way more powerful than I thought I could ever become. I’ve just got to use my power responsibly.
No, wait a minute, scratch that. I’m already responsible.
What I’ve got to become is something more than…what I am. I’ve got to stop restricting myself to purely human thoughts. I need to stop allowing the limitations of narrow-minded human ideas to keep me pinned to this small-minded existence.
When you’re hardwired with the gift of immortality, when you’ve been bred into an all-powerful, unkillable she-God, what you have to do is find a way to leave the world in better shape than you found it. You don’t do that by brutalizing and killing those who seek to destroy humanity through centralized power, intimidation and dictatorial control. You want to, of course—and those bastards deserve it for sure—but you don’t make the world better through murder.
As seductive as that might seem, it just doesn’t work that way.
So now that I’m at this place where I know myself, where I’m pretty sure I love my new self, what I’ve got to do is tie off a few loose ends. Fulfill some promises. These messes I need to clean up, these histories that have not yet happened but will happen—and to sheer devastation—they need to be set right.
And there’s the whole thing about choosing a boy, and falling in love. Mmmmm, yes. Finally some sunshine to chase away the rain!
It’s time, I tell myself.
This crap about bouncing around from guy to guy trying to find one who isn’t overly douchey, or too narcissistic to notice me, I’m soooo over it already. I deserve to be in love! To have a man. And I swear this on my immortal soul, I’m going to hunt down true love if it’s the last motherfreaking thing I do.
But like I said…first things first: Loose ends.
I’ve got one of Cameron O’Dell’s victims, Patricia Blalock, to avenge. It’s a promise I made, a promise I damn sure plan on keeping. That’s why I’m on a plane heading across the country to a world renowned mental health ward.
Patricia’s father…Tad Blalock…this hyperbolic weasel needs attending to.
You know how recruiters interview potential employees by saying things like, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Yeah, well that’s how I’m going to interview this moral deviant. I’m going to be like, “So where do you see yourself in five minutes,” and I swear to our Lord and Savior above, if his answer isn’t, “Dead,” well then I’m going to put on my selling shoes and show him what’s what.
Then after taking care of this last thing, my lips to God’s ear, I swear I’ll be the girl I’ve always wanted to be. I give you my word.
2
Driving a rental car—this forest green Buick for heaven’s sake—it’s a far cry from my Audi. A far cry from feeling confident and sexy. But desperate times call for desperate measures and at least this rental of mine can go when I stomp on the gas.
Listening to talk radio as I navigate my way up to the Collins Institute for the Mentally Ill, the world renowned psychiatric center run by Dr. Tad Blalock, I contemplate what’s to come.
Dr. Blalock, I think with moist, gut toiling revulsion. What a slippery, slippery slope he’s tumbled down!
Tad Blalock: the man who sexually abused his daughter, Patricia. The same Patricia that Cameron taunted to death through Facebook. When Patricia killed herself in her father’s office, when Patricia’s mother took her life in retaliation, you think it would’ve been enough to stop Blalock’s diabolical behavior.
You’d be wrong.
I wish I was going to visit this human pestilence and punch his freaking clock, but I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to kill him.
Rest assured, however, justice will be served.
I waltz through the institution’s front door with balls the size of lumberjacks’ fists. Inside, the place looks more like the lobby of a high society rehab center than that of a treatment center for the mentally ill. A guard asks about the large duffle bag at my side. It’s big, black and bulky and it’s clanking metal inside, so he’d be irresponsible not to.
“I’m here to see Dr. Blalock,” I tell him in my super sweet, teenaged voice. “I’m simply returning this to him.”
“I’ll need to see inside your bag before you can go in,” he says, his breath high in his chest because I’m a cute girl he’s about to shake down.
He’s very serious about this, though…me showing him what’s in the bag. I can understand people who take their jobs seriously, but not if they get in the way of me doing my job.
“I appreciate that and all,” I say, batting my eyelashes, unleashing the charm, “but do you really think Dr. Blalock would appreciate you going through his personal items as if he were a common criminal? After all, this isn’t my bag, it’s his bag.”
Unfazed by my beauty, by my magnetism, he frowns, gives me narrowed eyes and then says, “The bag, now.”
“You trust me, and you trust Dr. Blalock, so truly, this isn’t necessary,” I say looking deep into his eyes. Psychically, I’ve already penetrated his brain. I’ve already let him know it’s okay. The way I work, I’ve already implanted within him the notion that I’m safe.
I feel my suggestion taking hold. It’s the kind of submission that starts all rigid and tense, but then softens into compliance.
“I guess it’s okay,” he finally says, his mouth working against his training, his instincts and certainly his better judgment. “It’s not, but it is.”
His hand goes to his gun, then it comes off, then he turns and sneezes and a bit of snot balls up in the front door of his left nostril. He seems preoccupied with getting rid of it, but not in front of me because that would just be gross.
“Where exactly would I find the good doctor?” I ask. He finally wipes his nose on his sleeve, then gives me directions, his head still at odds with his duty-bound persona. “Thanks, you have been a tremendous help.”
I find the doctor’s office, give the door a two-tap courtesy knock before strolling inside like I own the joint. Sitting behind his ostentatious walnut desk, Dr. Blalock looks like a shortish fellow with thinning hair and steadfast, no-nonsense eyes. His upper body bears the feminine innocence of a Justin Bieber frame (narrow shoulders, slender jaw, delicate hands), but he has the wet gaze of a pedophile, the kind that slithers up your spine from ten feet away.
He likes me. No, worse. He’s intensely attracted to me.
Gah!
The way I feel being around him, it’s like the more needy sides of his inner self are aching to do bad things to me. Unspeakable things. Meeting his gaze, breathing from the same air as him, I can’t f*cking stand that I’m even letting him look at me the way he is. So I smile because if I don’t, I can’t say for sure what kind of cruelty I’ll pile upon him.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, glancing down at my large black, overstuffed gym bag, then returning his eyes to mine. He’s wondering how I got my big, gorgeous eyes. I almost tell him from science, but I don’t. His eyes dip down to my breasts, then jump back up. Real quick. When he licks his lips, I feel an uncomfortable weight upon me, an awful energy burrowing past my defenses and seeping into my bones.
“I come with good news,” I announce with a sudden, falsified cheeriness.
“Before you wow me with this good news, would you mind terribly telling me your name? And then perhaps you could tell me who let you in my office unannounced.”
“Oh, yes. Savannah Swann. May I sit down?”
His perverted
body springs to life, moving around the other side of his desk to pull out a chair for me. What a gentleman. I should’ve brought disinfectant wipes.
I sit, but instead of setting the duffle bag at my feet, I drop it on Dr. Blalock’s Presidential desk amongst his things; the extremely heavy bag hitting the desk sounds the way a bag of mufflers would sound if you dropped it on cement.
Tad Blalock, father to the suicided Patricia Blalock, his eyes harbor a sudden concern and he’s about to ask me what I’m doing when I say, “Sit down, please. You’ll be more comfortable when you hear what I have to say.”
He’s getting a bit fidgety. Becoming irritated with all the things he doesn’t know about this situation. About me being here. He’s also curious. Looking at me with a pestering little niggle of worry. He wants to call security. He should. Loud noises and clanking metal, they have a way of setting a person’s teeth on edge. And it doesn’t hurt that today we’re all living in a climate of fear—fear of guns, fear of terror, fear of the boisterous unknown. No one is relaxed anymore. Least of all him. Then again, with a smile like mine, and features so lovely they’re disarming, he’s thinking there’s no way I’m here to harm him.
“At the risk of being insensitive to your feelings,” I say, “or politically incorrect—even though being politically incorrect is an abused joke and fast becoming the downfall of our country—do you remember a pestilence of a girl named Cameron O’Dell?”
His eyes simmer and quake at the mention of Cameron’s name. The whole room seems to dim with his change of mood. The air gets stuffy, just like that.
“Yeah,” I say, low and slow and nodding my head, “my sentiments exactly. Anyway, she’s dead.”
He draws a breath, his watery eyes unblinking, those perverted brown eyes never leaving my no-nonsense brown eyes, not even once. All the sexual want has forsaken him. Left him basking in the residue of a deep seated pain. The pain of loss.
