by The Behrg
They had visited Sea World back when they were considering the move to California. The shark exhibit had been Adam’s favorite, stepping into that curved glass tunnel, water surrounding them on all sides. The sharks had just been fed and darted back and forth in a frenzy, and while Adam had stood enthralled, Blake had been gripped with a sort of panic. It hadn’t been the pressure of thousands of pounds of water bearing down on them nor the fact that mere inches of glass was all that separated them from those hungry monsters. It had simply been the look in their alien eyes. Not a dangerous look, like encountering a wild canine. The only word that came to mind was . . . apathetic. If the glass hadn’t been there, they would have continued feasting, a second course consisting of Crochets coming right up. But the fact that the glass was there, it hadn’t angered them. They simply didn’t care. Eventually they would feed. Eventually they’d have their way.
That same soulless glare came hurtling toward him from those black eyes in Joje’s skull. Make a move, and I pull the trigger, they said.
Only it would have been twiggo.
Blake realized he should have grabbed the gun, knocked it aside, and turned it on the kid threatening him and his family. Should have called his bluff—there was no way that thing was loaded—and slugged him in the jaw, permanently displacing that smile. Should have yelled for his wife to hide while he ducked into the other room, coming back with his own handgun, a .38 Special that was locked in a small beige safe on top of the highest shelf in his office, combination sixteen–forty-two–eleven.
“Stay calm.” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking for Jenna’s sake, or his own. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got, George, no lies. There’s a safe.” Blake swallowed. “Three grand in it. I won’t even call the cops.”
The tic was back, left eye twitching, mouth opening in that odd stretch. Joje looked down, clearing his throat.
I should move now. Attack. Take his gun.
Joje looked up in that instant.
Blake hit the handwoven Persian rug before he realized he had been struck. The floor felt like it was falling out from beneath him. Blood seeped into his eye. Real blood, not that fake crap Joje had used. Every heartbeat resounded through his head as if the task of pumping blood to his body had been handed over to his cerebrum.
“What—what do you want from us?” Jenna’s voice. So distant.
Blake rose to his knees, pushing past the vertigo that threatened to send him back to the floor.
Joje wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I’m sorry, Bwakey. I saw what you were thinking and, I don’t like violence.” He stood, seeming to bask in the scene of Blake kneeling before him. He continued, with his lisp, “No one’s ever treated me like you, Bwake. With honesty. Not feeding me a bunch of lies. You made me realize how wrong my approach has been. What I really need is a mentor, someone who can help me navigate my way. The more I thought about it, I realized family plays just as big a role in success. Don’t you think?”
He stood, his eyes hovering toward Jenna as he crept toward her, a predator stalking its prey.
“Don’t you touch me,” she spat.
“You misunderstand my intentions,” Joje said.
“Oh, I read them. Loud and clear.”
He suddenly reached out, grabbing Jenna and spinning her around. He pressed his body close to hers as he snapped back the top of the gun in one quick motion.
Blake closed his eyes as he heard the bullet enter the chamber, barrel now pointed at the back of his wife’s head.
“Time for a family council. You, me, your son . . . and my little brother.” Wittle bwahtho. Joje grinned. “We have an awful lot to talk about.”
Joje’s laughter scraped against the chalkboard in Blake’s mind.
3
Seated on the couch he had called a bed last night, his wife and son next to him, Blake stared down at his Cesare Paciotti shoes. His reflection in them looked so small. The Band-Aid he was unable to find for Joje now plastered to his own forehead did little to help make his image on that shined canvas look anything but weak. At least the African drums in his head weren’t beating quite as loudly.
Joje paced in front of them, his “brother” sitting on the piano bench or, rather, enveloping it like a gelatinous blob—not a single piece of the bench could be seen beneath his massive weight.
Introductions had already been made.
Joje called the newcomer Dwew, and despite his protestations, it was very apparent they were not related. Long dirty-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, pasty white skin, and a gut so heavy and full his shirt never had a chance of being tucked in. The kid was a brute, and while he looked like nothing but Jell-O, Blake sensed there was muscle beneath the mass.
Watching Drew fiddle with his phone, Blake couldn’t keep the scowl from his face. Seeing those fat fingers rape Blake’s Cyborg pissed him off more than the fact that they were being kidnapped in their own house.
Drew had been outside on the porch waiting for Joje to let him in, all part of their apparent plan. Had Jenna and Blake not shared a moment last night—a glimpse that repairing their marriage was at least a possibility—Jenna would have left earlier for her run instead of waiting to see Blake off and would have discovered the giant albino just outside. They would have been alerted to the fact that something was very, very wrong.
To think an act of kindness, an outreach toward patching things up, however small, had inadvertently prevented them from uncovering the situation they were now in was one of the most depressing thoughts floating through Blake’s mind. He hoped Jenna wasn’t thinking the same thing. The way she avoided his eyes let him know she had at least considered it.
The “pwoject” was insane. It could never work, and some part of Blake understood that’s what made it so exciting to Joje. It was a kidnapping, but in all the wrong ways. No ransom, no demands; there was nothing they wanted—other than to observe.
Blake had never considered how invasive that word could sound.
Joje and Drew were moving in; they would follow his family’s daily activities, watch their every move for seven days, an entire week. Joje would shadow Blake to work, to lunch, back home, to the bathroom, to the bedroom. He had made it clear there wouldn’t be a moment he wasn’t present. Somehow Drew would manage both Jenna and Adam, though how he’d keep up with Jenna’s schedule alone Blake couldn’t imagine.
“In order for the experiment to work,” Joje had said, “we want you to pretend we’re not even here. Like flies on the wall.” Would you like fwies with that? “We are here strictly to observe.”
Blake’s pounding head contested otherwise.
Conrad suddenly yelped from her cage. She had been whining for some time. Now that she had found her voice, she wouldn’t stop until she was let out.
“She needs to go potty,” Jenna said.
“She can wait,” Joje answered.
Blake sensed his wife fuming. It wouldn’t take long before she’d go off, and it would be with a bang.
He put his hand on her knee, squeezing it gently. Not now, honey. The time may come soon, but not now.
“Let’s go over the house rules,” Joje said. “Three simple rules that keep everyone safe.”
“What’s a woo?” Adam asked. It was the first time he had spoken since he had been made aware of their predicament.
“Rule, Adam, house rules,” Blake said. “Just listen, don’t talk.”
“But I can’t understand a word this guy is—”
Blake grabbed his son’s face, squeezing his mouth. He had never done anything like that before, and the shock was evident in Adam’s eyes.
“Don’t talk.” Blake dropped his hand. Please, Son, I’m doing this for you.
Joje smiled. “A father’s love. I just got goose pimples! See, we’re learning already!”
Drew was oblivious to the conversation, lost in whatever was holding his attention on Blake’s phone. It was more than disconcerting, considering the amount of information
he would have access to. The phone should be able to read if someone other than the owner gained access to it, the AI interface supposedly able to recognize the change in behavior. Of course, the purpose of beta-testing was to uncover exactly those types of errors, and Drew didn’t look capable of entertaining himself with a locked screen.
Conrad’s yelping became incessant, a faucet whose leak had turned into a flow. Joje told Drew to go check on her. Blake imagined the legs of the piano bench snapping beneath Drew before he had time to rise. He was left disappointed.
“The house rules,” Joje said. “One. Tell no one about our pwoject, who we are, or why we’re here. No crazy stories about kidnappings. You don’t mention us to the police, your friends at work, not even the gardener. No one.”
Blake and Jenna nodded silently.
“Two. To help with rule one, no phones.”
Joje stopped in front of the piano. Jenna’s and Adam’s cell phones as well as Blake’s Bluetooth earpiece rested upon the tray for sheet music. The earpiece flashed with a reddish hue—he had messages.
“No cell phones, no home phones, no work phones. No pay phones. No borrowing someone’s phone. And no e-mail or Internet.”
Adam raised his hand. Blake shot him a glance that was ignored.
“You don’t need to raise your hand, Adam. I’m not a teacher.”
“What about video games?” Adam asked, his hand lowering halfway.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“But you can talk with people online through the games.”
Joje smiled. “See, that’s the level of trust I’m hoping we gain. The games are fine, Adam. I trust you. It’s your parents I don’t want getting ideas.”
Blake shook his head. “If you want to see my job, I’ll have nothing to show you. Ninety percent of what I do is conducted over web conferencing, computers, or my cell.”
If Blake could get his hands on his phone, he’d have them out of this dilemma within minutes.
“I wowee you’re not taking this serious, Bwake.”
“No, I am, I just—I’ll lose my job if I can’t use a computer or phone.”
Joje paused as if perplexed. “I can’t jeopardize your job . . . We’ll just run the calls through me. I’ll be like your secretary. But with balls.” He laughed, not realizing or perhaps caring that no one joined in. “Third and most important rule. Nothing changes from your routine. Nothing! Even if—especially if—it’s something you wouldn’t want others to know about. I can’t emphasize this enough. Any questions?”
Adam spoke hesitantly. “What do we tell people, I mean, who do we say you are?”
Drew walked back into the room, Conrad’s yelping growing more desperate.
“Tell them we’re family,” Joje said.
“She wants out,” Drew said.
“No shit.” Joje looked at Adam. “Can you take her out?”
Adam rose from the couch, Drew following him back to the kitchen. As soon as they were gone, Joje leaned in close to Blake and Jenna. His grip on the gun tightened, as if he felt a reminder was necessary.
“I’m a nice guy. And to prove it, I have rules too. But understand this, if you break one of your rules, I break one of mine. First rule? No one gets hurt. Second, your son”—Blake felt himself tensing—“stays with you.”
Joje paused, letting that one sink in.
“Third rule. After the week’s up, we leave. The pwoject’s over, you never see us again. Though you might grow to miss us.”
He smiled. Blake did everything within his power to not knock those teeth from his head.
The smile fell. “Don’t make me break one of my rules. Adam seems like a nice kid. And I weawy hate viowence.”
4
A tour of the house was the first order of business, all five of them awkwardly trolling from room to room. They started upstairs—Adam’s room and the guest bath.
Adam’s room, of course, hadn’t changed; his bed still in pieces, dressers and unopened boxes in disarray. The guest bath was a Jack and Jill, attached to both Adam’s bedroom and the guest bedroom. Toothpaste was crusted on both the mirror and the counter, wadded up tissues discarded near the sink. Blake was just glad Jenna didn’t open the door to the toilet.
They entered the guest room through the bathroom. This was the first Blake had seen of the Deb-inspired decor.
Japanese-style hangings with brushed lettering climbed down the walls, a five-partition changing screen blocking a corner of the room. The bed and dressers were made of elegantly carved bamboo and reed wood.
A six-foot mortar statue of a giant Buddha and a samurai sword in its scabbard on the wall only hinted at what was really wrong with the room—it was like a Hollywood set where broad strokes were meant to hide the utter disregard for detail.
“You don’t like it,” Jenna said.
She was close. He hated it.
“What? You’ve complained about every other room,” she said. “Might as well tell me what we did wrong here.”
“What didn’t you do wrong? You’ve got the statue of Buddha facing the bed. Do you have any idea how sacrilegious that is? It’s like flaunting your sins before a god. He should be facing the door so those entering can give their respects.”
“To that thing?” Adam asked.
“Yes, Adam, to that thing. You’ve got to understand other cultures don’t operate on ignorance like Americans do. One wrong word or gesture and you’ve offended someone so deeply they won’t hear another word you say. Like this sword?”
Blake moved to the wall where the sword was hung.
“It should be mounted with the handle on the left. A representation of peace. The way it’s mounted now? It means aggression and danger to those who enter. It’s the same direction it’d be drawn from in battle. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s like we’re living in some twisted bed-and-breakfast with themed rooms only someone as demented as Deb could come up with.”
Jenna was silent. Blake knew he had hurt her. He also knew the frustrations rising to the surface went much deeper than ill-placed furniture.
“It was my idea,” Jenna said, “not Deb’s. It was going to be a surprise. We were going to hang the kamora or whatever you call it, the warrior garb you have in storage, against that wall there.”
The kimono. Blake felt like an ass. He traveled to Asia several times a year on business, and Jenna knew how important it was to him—not just the deals or the money—the culture, the people.
“Guess we spoiled the surprise,” Joje said.
“I’m sorry,” Blake said, knowing the apology was as out of place as the East Asian decor. He found he couldn’t take his eyes from the sword on the wall. When he considered their kidnapping, maybe it had been mounted the right direction.
“This will be your room,” Jenna said. “Bed should be big enough, and we’ve got blow-up mattresses in the garage if you need them. You are guests after all. Make yourselves at home.”
Drew dropped a faded duffel onto the bed, one end held together by strips of warped duct tape. It was all they had brought with them for an entire week.
“That won’t be necessary,” Joje said, picking the bag back up and handing it to Drew. “Unless, of course, you’re in this room, I doubt we’ll be visiting it much. Can’t observe if we’re not with you. At all times.”
“Of course,” Jenna said, her tone gone cold. “Should we continue?”
They did.
The theater room, upstairs loft with Jenna’s vast array of workout equipment that would rival most gyms, the master bed and bath—almost as unfamiliar to Blake as it was to their “guests.”
The procession continued as Blake slid more and more into himself. Maybe it was the realization of just how much access their kidnappers intended to intrude upon or that feeling of being judged, for how much excess they felt entitled to and how frivolously they spent their money. Perhaps it was the even harsher realization that in some regard, those judgments might be justified.
Back do
wnstairs, Jenna led them to Blake’s study. Double doors opened into a room lined with custom bookshelves that had been soundproofed to ensure Blake’s ability to work from home without distraction. Blake had tested it himself, having Adam scream as loud as he could just outside his office and then sealing the doors. Not a whisper passed through.
A gilded oak desk sat in the center of the room like a throne, walls and shelves lined with accolades—awards and gifts and pictures of Blake with businessmen, politicians, men and women of power, and in each framed photo, Blake smiled, an arm around someone’s shoulder or waist, wine glass, cigar, or beer bottle held in the air.
While Joje glanced at the pictures and awards, Drew picked up a gold-embossed model airplane from one of the shelves. It had been a gift from one of Blake’s Chinese friends at BSC International. Blake had helped them win a contract with Boeing that took their company from twenty million in sales to over two hundred million. The golden plane was in reference to a Chinese proverb of the bird that wanted to fly to the sun; once he reached it, he was turned to gold, never to fly again.
The plane slipped from Drew’s hands, falling to the floor. It hit with a loud thunk, a propeller and piece of wing breaking off.
Drew moved on to the next memento, not even bothering to retrieve the downed plane.
Never to fly again, Blake thought with a certain sadness.
Joje moved around the desk, sitting at Blake’s chair. He waved his hand through a holographic clock, shook the wireless mouse, Blake’s thirty-two-inch monitor awakening to a black screen. His laptop was still in his briefcase.
“So is this your office, or do you go in to an office?” Joje asked.
“Both. Most days I work from home so . . . this will be it.”
“And today, when you hit me with your car?”
Blake was pretty sure Joje had been the one to do the hitting. “I was going in to work.”
“Where’s work?” Wuhk.
“Westlake. It’s our corporate office.”
“Uh-huh,” Joje said. “So we should be there right now, not here. Are we late? Do we need to leave?”
