The Letter Keeper

by Charles Martin

  I had a feeling the entrance to the media room could be found there, but I didn’t have time to search for secret doors and hidden stairs. I circled the desk, which looked unused and ornamental. I doubted anyone had ever sat at it. On top sat a Wi-Fi picture frame. Every few seconds, a new picture flashed onto the screen and rotated through. I walked to the back of the desk, studied the viewer, and was surprised to see a picture of me, taken moments ago, as I crossed the field to the barn. The following fifteen pictures traced my progression into the house, down into the dungeon, through the kitchen, and down the hallway into the office—some thirty-five seconds ago.

  Someone was watching me.

  When I lifted the frame, the picture changed again to one of me holding the picture frame. Judging from the angle of the camera, I studied the wall and found a dime-sized camera lens posing as one of the eyes in the artwork hanging above the fireplace. The picture flashed again, this time to a picture of me holding the frame and staring into the camera. Present tense.

  When the frame changed again, it showed the towheaded boy I’d been sent to find. The photographer had taken the picture close up. The boy’s pupils were dilated and eyelids droopy. I doubted he was conscious. I studied the picture, trying to make sense of the blurred images in the background. Finally, my mind put the pieces together. They were bodies. Intertwined like driftwood.

  I was in the process of setting the frame on the desk when it flashed one last time. To a picture of Ellie. My daughter. The photographer had been standing behind her and the picture was taken over her shoulder. She was studying at a coffee shop on Main Street in Freetown. Head tilted, shoulders relaxed, the fingers of her right hand unconsciously twirling her hair. Something she did when she was thinking.

  I placed my fingers on the screen, expanded the picture, and read the date and time off the top of her laptop screen. The picture had been taken ten minutes ago. As I stared in disbelief, it changed again. This time to Angel. Playing Ping-Pong. The white ball hung suspended in midair, hit by an opponent with her back to me. The expression on Angel’s face was one of elation. I expanded my fingers over the news report on the TV screen in the background. Date and time showed twelve minutes ago. When the frame flashed a final time, I was staring at a black-and-white picture of Casey as she typed at a laptop in her room, Gunner asleep at her feet. This picture had been taken from a distance through her bedroom window.

  “Bones?”

  “Check.”

  “Lock down Sally.”

  Bones and I had worked together long enough to develop a language that meant much more than the words themselves. Lock down meant, “I have reason to believe someone we love is in imminent danger. So secure everyone at Freetown. Right now. DEFCON 1.” Sally added specificity to the threat and told him who to find: the girls.

  Bones responded without comment. “Check.”

  My experience thus far told me there were two parties going on here. One party in the underworld and one on the surface. Which was smart on somebody’s part. It allowed for plausible deniability—if you had a really good lawyer.

  The numbers around the pool were thinning, suggesting those who knew the real purpose of the party were departing while those who did not remained.

  I needed a diversion, and fire had always been my friend. The sight of an in-house sprinkler system suggested that unless I blew up the house, the fire wouldn’t last long. And while I’d enjoy the fireworks, I ran the risk of hurting some people who, in all honesty, thought they were simply attending a party and had no idea what was going on in the tombs below.

  I quickly descended the stairs and held my lit Zippo beneath a fire sprinkler, causing multiple alarms to sound. Accompanying the earsplitting racket were umpteen streams of high-pressured water soaking every square inch of the basement and stairwell. While I preferred fire damage because it just felt better, water damage can be worse. It can also make life uncomfortable in subfreezing temperatures, but I’d worry about that then.

  I headed back up to the kitchen and glanced out the window. Scuttled either by sound or water, additional armed guards appeared from a cabin behind the house and began filing across the pool deck with purpose.

  I held my Zippo to the kitchen sprinkler, which sent signals to one half of the house, and watched as partygoers began scurrying like scared cats. Standing in the kitchen while the water rained down, I studied my options.

  As I thought, Bones rang into my earpiece. “Sally locked down. Gunner standing guard. All good.”

  “Check that.”

  Through the kitchen window, I counted seven private jets sitting along the runway. Given the glow of their engines glistening through a light snowfall, all of them were warming up. Bones chimed in my ear again: “Engines hot.” That’s about when I heard the report of the rifle and felt the fire scorch my left leg.

  The massive kitchen island was constructed mostly of stone, so I tucked myself behind it, made a makeshift bandage out of a kitchen towel and a curtain pull cord, secured it around my leg, then belly-crawled to the porch. I grabbed the spare propane tank beneath a portable fryer and set it on a grill set to high. I then returned to the kitchen and used a butcher knife to hack off the feed line to the gas stove, pouring propane into the open air. I exited the kitchen about the time one hundred thousand BTUs heated the tank beyond its holding ability. The first explosion blew out all the glass in the kitchen, which ignited the propane-laden air in the kitchen, which blew out the sides of the house, which then lit the gas line leading to the much larger tank that heated the pool and secondary houses.

  The three explosions must have registered on Bones’s satellite feed because the next words sounding in my ear were, “You good?”

  “Check.”

  The explosion shook the second half of the house and disintegrated any glass that remained, allowing me to hear the jet noise on the runway half a mile away as one jet after another lined up to disappear into a gray Montana sky.

  Bones again. “Wheels up.”

  “I see ’em.”

  Whoever sent me the pictures of the boy, the bodies, and the girls was trying to keep me busy while everyone boarded their planes and disappeared into the night sky. A head fake. I knew this. I also knew I couldn’t very well leave the captives to fend for themselves. And I knew men hide bodies in basements.

  I returned down the stairs through a shower of cold water into the basement, asking myself where I’d hide people I didn’t want found. I searched every room. Looking for seams in walls, secret doors, secret crawlspaces. Anything that offered space enough to hold several people. My search brought me back to the elevator, but this time one thing stood out that had not before: a trail of liquid smeared along the floor. Urine. I punched the button and the elevator door opened, revealing a completely normal elevator. Save one thing. The trail of liquid continued across the floor of the elevator and beneath the far door—as if whoever’d left it had been rolled through the opposite door when it opened at the floor above. My problem was simple: whoever had left that trail would have sat there while they rode the elevator up. Making a puddle. But no puddle existed. They hadn’t sat at all. They’d been dragged. Straight through.

  I studied the buttons. “1.” “2.” “3.” “In Case of Emergency.” And “Light.” Oddly, the two most worn buttons were the last two, causing me to wonder just how many emergencies one residential elevator could have. Judging by the wear on the buttons, they had been pushed simultaneously. And often. I pushed both and the back door of the elevator rolled open. Revealing another hallway.

  In the back of my mind, I heard Bones. Nothing is as it seems.

  I stepped into the hallway, triggering the motion lights. If I thought the first hallway was a den of iniquity, I had another thing coming. My room search took me to a locked door behind which I heard scuffling, which was either a really big rat or a person trying to get out. Fortunately, the lock and light switch were on my side. Just like in a prison.

  I flipped b
oth and tried to slide the door open, but something prevented me. I pushed harder and slid the obstruction out of the way enough to squeeze my body through the opening, where I found a sleeping teenage girl at my feet. A quick scan and I counted nine more. All unconscious and poorly clothed, if at all. Scanning the room, I found two eyes staring back at me.

  The eyes of a boy.

  He was shaking more from shock than cold, but what does it matter. He was leaning against the concrete with his arms wrapped around his knees, leaving me to question whether he was hugging himself or bracing himself. When I squatted across from him, he flinched. “You cold?”

  Chattering teeth. Puffy eye. Bloody nose. He was a fighter. I liked him.

  I draped a comforter over his shoulders. Blond hair stuck to his face. He never took his eyes off me. Or the Sig.

  He wiped his nose on his sleeve. I looked a second time at the finger-shaped bruises on his neck.

  “Can you walk?”

  He stood. Unsteady. Working hard to focus his eyes. If he was aware that he’d wet his pants, he didn’t show it.

  When Bones had sent the picture, he’d included the words, “Tight window. Now or never. And . . .” I stared at the bodies strewn about me and remembered his last words: “He might not be the only one.”

  I needed to get these kids out of here, so I rode the elevator to the surface and took a look around. My shadow in tow. The kid never let me get beyond arm’s reach. The elevator opened into an empty garage large enough to hold a couple of tractor trailers. Two bay doors suggested vehicles drove in one way and exited another. I returned downstairs, grabbed every blanket, sheet, or jacket I could find, and then loaded the elevator to capacity. Getting everyone topside required two trips. When finished, the floor of the garage looked more morgue than triage. The kid and I wrapped each of the girls in the bedding. We put two in each cocoon, hoping they’d unknowingly share body warmth. I didn’t know what they’d been given, but each pulse was strong, suggesting the concoction produced sleep and not death.

  When we’d finished, I waved my hand across them. “You know any of them?”

  He shook his head.

  I glanced out the bay door. The main house sat down a slight hill some two hundred yards through the trees. The party had long since ended, but I wanted to look around. I had a strong sense the puppeteer was hanging around. I turned to my shadow. I knew what he was going to say but asked anyway. “Can you wait here?”

  He stepped closer and shook his head.

  Another glance out the bay door. I squatted in front of him. “I’m going to burn their playhouse down. Can you do what I tell you?”

  He nodded without hesitation.

  Chapter 3

  We rode the elevator down, returned through the catacombs, and climbed the stairs. This time as we neared the top, I chose the smaller stairwell and found myself staring into the service entrance that fed the kitchen. The house was empty.

  Clearing the room, I spoke out loud. “Bones?”

  “Check.”

  “Turned one into eleven. All require medical attention. Stat.”

  “Roger. En route. Check.”

  The exterior propane tank explosion had set the pool house ablaze. Black smoke and flames climbed above the trees. Staring across what used to be the back porch, I saw a tall, fit man wearing sunglasses and a black suit exit a cabin beyond the far end of the house and begin strolling casually across the scorched earth to a golf cart waiting to ferry him to the airport. He walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Just another stroll in the park. I leveled my AR and studied him through my optics. He was handsome, tall, broad-shouldered, and walked purposefully while the firelight danced upon his face. For one brief second, he turned and looked. Directly at me—which was strange given that I’d attempted to hide myself. The look lasted two or three seconds. Something he intended. Through the smoke and reflection of the flames, I saw chiseled, familiar features, long salt-and-pepper hair, and a white trimmed beard. I could not place the face, but his expression told me this was his world. Everything I could see or touch for miles belonged to him. Further, the smug look in his eyes said that even what I thought belonged to me belonged to him. I checked for my shadow.

  The man stepped into a cart driven by an armed gorilla, casually crossed one leg over the other, and turned down the hill for the runway. Driving into the darkness, he pulled off his sunglasses and glanced once more over his shoulder. Right at me. A slight smile. A slightly upturned eyebrow. I turned the dial on my scope, increasing the magnification, and placed the crosshairs on the bridge of his nose, equally spaced between amber-colored pupils that matched the fire around him.

  I’d met a lot of bad men in my life. Most wear masks to conceal their dark hearts, but regardless of makeup, costume, or plastic surgery, their eyes betray them. Bones told me early in my training that the eyes are the lamp of the body. They magnify the soul, reflecting the truth of the person housed below.

  This man’s eyes were black holes.

  Reminding me that the best way to kill a snake is to cut off the head.

  I exited the kitchen door and began running down the hill to the barn, the boy on my heels. I threw open the barn door where the Ferrari-red engine cover of the snowmobile caught my eye. I cranked the engine and catapulted out of the barn while the boy latched a death grip around my waist. Seldom had I reached eighty miles an hour so quickly. I carved an S-curve through the back pasture en route to the airfield where two jets, engines glowing red, remained on the tarmac.

  The cart carrying the man drove through the gates of the airport, circled, and dropped him at the stairway of the first jet. While I redlined the engine, shooting a rooster tail of snow some sixty feet behind me, he casually climbed the stairway, only to stand atop it and light a cigar. Not a care in the world. I leveled my AR to disable his engines with .223 rounds when he lifted a phone from his pocket and dialed a number. No sooner had he finished dialing than the empty garage exploded and an angry ball of flames climbed into the night sky.

  With an expression of satisfaction, he held out both hands. The suggestion was clear: Me or them?

  I turned the snowmobile ninety degrees, and the boy and I climbed the hill toward the garage as the man’s plane taxied away.

  We reached the garage where the explosion had blown off everything to the left of the elevator, which was fortunate given that I’d stacked the girls in their cocoons along the far right wall. Sometimes you get lucky. While the girls smelled like smoke and soot covered their faces, not a one had woken. They’d never remember it, which, given the hell they’d endured, was good.

  Overhead, his jet roared through the night sky. I stood in the trees and watched the vapor trail dissolve into two snake eyes. I did not like losing.

  Bones landed, medical personnel tended to the ten girls along with my new friend, and Bones found me standing in the woods staring at the house. He spoke as soon as he saw me. “Girls are all good. Gunner too.”

  “How’d he get those pics?”

  Bones shook his head. “He planted a guy in Freetown. We’ve got him on video. And he did more than just take pictures of the girls. He took video.”

  “Of them?”

  “No. The grounds.”

  It took a second for this to sink in. “He’s scoping us out?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “How?”

  “Walked into the hospital as one guy, then out as another. We didn’t catch the disguise until he’d exited the perimeter.”

  “I thought our security couldn’t be beat.”

  “It can’t.”

  “Except for this guy.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. He’s good.”

  “What about that facial recognition software we spent so much money on?”

  “He knew how to avoid it.”

  He pulled a double cheeseburger out of a bag and handed it to me. “Sorry. It was all I could do on short notice.” I ate it, followed quickly by a second
. He offered me a beer but I declined, choosing to eat the fries instead. All I really wanted was a shower and a bed.

  While the pool house had been entirely consumed, the main house and most of the other buildings remained standing. Structurally sound, they could be brought back to life. “Bones, who is this guy?”

  “He sells himself as a philanthropist. Said to have made his money in tech, but it’s a cover. He keeps friends in high places. And not just the church. He owns dozens of homes around the world, and a couple times a year he flies in ‘friends’ from around the world. Priests. CEOs. Politicians. Powerful people who either have, or have access to, money. Calls them ‘Soul Restoration Summits.’ It’s a shell game. Most of the partygoers have no idea what’s going on behind closed doors.”

  “He have a name?”

  “Several.”

  Bones took a breath. “Peel away the layers and you’ll find he’s the owner of the second largest pornography company in the world. He employs several thousand people who canvas the planet for young, fresh ‘talent,’ and he has single-handedly bought and sold more flesh than possibly anyone in modern human history.”

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “More on that later.”

  “How come we’ve never bumped into him?”

  “You have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Forty-seven names on your back once belonged to him. And those are just the ones we know of. Could be twice that.”

  “That would explain the expression on his face.”

  “Which was?”

  “Looked like he knew me. Like we’d met before.”

  A pause followed by a slight change in his voice. “Chances are good you’ve cost him more than any person alive.”