by Josie Brown
Suddenly, the monks’ cymbal symphony hits its crescendo. “You’ve reached metabolic transcendence,” Doreen murmurs to him.
“About damn time. I need a drink.” He takes the mirror she left on the table beside him and holds it up to see what’s going down the shit machine.
Not a pretty sight.
“Don’t stare,” she hisses at me.
No arguments there. I avert my eyes.
I avert my hand, too—into the valise.
Got it.
Two keys down, three to go.
“Okay, you can go.” Gaylord waves me away.
Gladly.
I’m almost at the door when he says, “Hey, you—stop right there!”
I freeze, but I’m afraid to turn around. Is he looking in his valise? I steel my shoulders and turn with a smile.
As it turns out, he’s looking at his manicure, thank goodness. “Anything else?” I ask.
“Yeah. Listen: I need you to set up my week in Burning Man—you know, with personal tours of the theme camps and the art installations. And make sure I get front row seating for all the musical events, and of course on the night of the big burn. And I want my costumes to be original! See if the guy with all the Tonys—you know, William Ivey Long—can whip some up for me.”
I nod as I click furiously on the GryPad’s digital keyboard. In fact, I’m writing REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM.
Even Gaylord can’t hear himself over the gurgle of his lower GI tract. He shouts, “Also, book me into the orgy dome every day, and for Spanky’s Wine Bar every night, along with at least three other happenings. In fact, talk to Elon Musk’s calendar girl. See if you can get your hands on his itinerary. I’m sure he won’t mind if I hang with him.”
The monks are chanting so furiously now. I guess they don’t like the sound of his bowel evacuation, either.
“Regarding my Burning Man accommodations,” Gaylord gasps over the chanting and the flushing. “I’ve got Skidmore, Owens & Merrill sending over the architectural plans for my yurt. Remind them that I don’t like the damn sand fleas, so it’s got to be at least three stories, all air-conditioned. Last year they forgot to add the electrified security gate—you know, to keep out the hippies. It almost ruined the whole experience for me!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Oh, and see if that chef from the Spotted Pig, April Bloomfield, will sign on for the whole week. And this time around I want three personal sherpas. That way, if the first two pass out from the heat, I’ve got another backup. And arrange accommodations for my facialist, my masseuse, my manicurist, and my hair stylist. I don’t want to look like one of those burner bums who have nothing better to do than hang out on the playa! An RV will do. They can share it. Oh, and I guess we’ll need a tent or something for Moe, Larry and Curly here.” He points to the monks.
I tap furiously on my GryPad screen, as if getting this all down. Actually, what I’m writing is:
BURNING MAN: MUST EXPERIENCE IT IN THE RAW. ONLY NEED A TENT AND WEEK’S WORTH OF PLAIN WATER AND BEEF JERKY.
With a tap, the note is forwarded to Serenity.
Gaylord pauses in thought then adds, “Jesus, about tonight—I almost forgot the most important thing! Hand me the Lark’s guest list again.”
I try to do this without looking directly at him and miss his hand completely.
He snorts as he snatches it from me. With his index finger, he highlights five names. “I’m having a private confab at eleven tonight—in my cabin. Find these five guests’ rooms. I want a personal note, hand delivered—understand? To them, not an underling! When you do so, ask them if they have any special needs for the meeting. More than likely, they will. They always do. Memorize it verbatim, but don’t write it down! I don’t need my friends’ wish lists showing up in Sam Biddle’s next column. Afterward, check back with Serenity regarding their requests.”
“Sure, no problem,” I assure him.
I wait until I’m out of there to look at the list. I’m not at all surprised to see Milton Otis’s name, or those of our other three suspects.
The fifth one is identified as Charles Babbage.
Who the hell is that, and what is his role in all this? Just what we need—one more stranger in the mix.
The monks rise, replacing their cymbals with rubber gloves. Smart move.
As they unplug him, we hit an air pocket, and shit goes flying.
Ladies and gents, this is not just a figure of speech.
Timing couldn’t have been worse. He has just stood up. His sheet falls to the ground. I avert my eyes, but it’s too late. I can’t but help noticing that Doreen’s manscaping is incomplete. His treasure trail is still scraggly. His junk is hidden somewhere in that bush.
Maybe her true talents lay elsewhere.
Each of Gaylord’s special guests has been given a private cabin, as opposed to a room in the lodge. All of the cabins are spaced far enough away from each other to allow for privacy. Each one has a spectacular view of the sea and the necklace of islands that make up the San Juans.
The one hard fast rule about the Lark is that any personal assistants and body guards brought ashore can never go beyond the boat houses that rim the island. There, they are free to relax when they aren’t assigned to a shift of watching the security cameras in search of boats or planes carrying unwanted intruders.
No security cameras are pointed toward the resort itself, and cell phones or other wireless devices aren’t allowed, so that guests have absolute privacy. Overheard conversations can make or break the stock prices of their companies. If being disconnected from the rest of the world doesn’t drive these perpetually-connected guests crazy, at least it gives them a legitimate excuse to unplug—if only for a few days.
In case anyone is watching, I’ll hit Milton’s (aka, Jack’s) cabin last. I’ll make my next-to-last stop that of Mr. Babbage’s so that I can take a few pictures of his face to run through Acme’s facial recognition software.
My first stop is the cabin of the Russian tech entrepreneur, Ivan Surkov. He opens the door wearing only a towel and a smirk. Eying me from bottom to top—well, almost to my face, until he gets waylaid around the chesticle area—he mutters, “You are less than desirable. Not big enough on top.”
Pointedly, I eye the towel—specifically around the testicle area—and cluck my tongue.
His glower only makes me smile as I go into my spiel. “Gaylord is requesting your presence for a private meeting at his cabin—eleven o’clock tonight, after dinner. He says you’re already versed on the topic at hand.”
Ivan shrugs. “Yes, of course.”
“He also wants to know if there is anything you’ll need, in preparation of the meeting,” I add.
“A hooker—someone with more boob.” He cups mine, and hefts them to gauge their perceived inadequacies.
I suppress the urge to cup his inadequacies and squeeze tightly.
Instead, I shrug. “There are plenty of boobs around. Consider it done.”
He grunts as he closes the door in my face.
The cabin belonging to Ji Wong, the Chinese Internet browser entrepreneur, is next. When I knock on the door, he shouts, “Enter!”
He is lying on the floor with a towel draped over his ass. “To crack back, yes?”
“Er…no. I’m here to deliver a message from Gaylord.”
Disappointed, he starts to rise. The towel slips.
“No, no! No need to get up! Feel free to stay as you were!” I turn my head toward the window. “Gaylord would be honored if you joined him after dinner, for a private gathering of a select few. Eleven o’clock, promptly.”
“Ah, yes.” He frowns. “It is I who am honored.”
“I will relay that message to him. In the meantime, is there anything you’d like?”
He looks down at my feet for the longest time. Finally, he shrugs and motions me to him. “They are too big—like a clown’s feet, alas.”
“Yes, alas.” Since when does Bozo wear a size nine A-width? He’s a size th
irteen, at the very least!
All of a sudden, Ji Wong’s back looks like the perfect place to practice my jumping jacks.
Instead, I bow my way out the door with the promise, “I’ll see if I can find your perfect Cinderella.”
As if.
Abdullah Ahmad’s cabin is on the other side of the resort. By the time I get there, I know what to expect: another naked mogul, trying to be one with nature. I knock carefully.
Instead, I’m happy when I find Abdullah dressed for a round of golf. He smiles wide when he sees me. “Ah! They say no hookers on the island, but here you are—and just in time to join me in the shower!”
What is it about me that exudes whore? It can’t be the button-down oxford shirt and khaki Capris.
“Sorry, no, I’m only here to deliver a message from Gaylord. He asks that you join him after dinner for a private meeting, at eleven. In preparation for the gathering, is there anything you may need?”
“I am fully prepared.” He frowns. “But for next time, tell him hookers.”
“Sure, I’ll pass it along.” Even before I’m through saying this, he slams the door in my face.
That does it. If the next dude comments on my tits, ass, feet, or any other part of my body, he won’t be feeling well enough to go to the cocktail party, let alone dinner or the eleven o’clock shindig.
I knock gently. Nothing. Then again, this time louder.
Maybe he’s out?
I guess I should wait. I have strict orders to deliver the message.
I’m still thinking it over when, suddenly, the door opens. A woman is heading out. She still has her back to me as her laugh deepens into a seductive purr. “I can do that easily—with my tongue, in fact. But you’ll have to make it worth my while.”
Her flirtation hits its mark. The man, intrigued, laughs and answers, “You tell me. Hasn’t everything I’ve done been worth it?”
It’s Carl’s voice.
He’s here too?
Oh…shit.
But of course. He’s heading the auction himself.
Suddenly, the woman turns in my direction—
It’s Serenity. She’s buttoning her Oxford shirt. When she sees me, the color leaves her face. “Oh—Lucy! What are you doing here?”
Instinctively, Carl turns toward the open door.
So that he doesn’t see me, I dodge to one side of the threshold. “I...”
Steady. Alter your voice.
Sneeze.
“I’m here to”—Ach-CHOO!—“deliver a message to Mr.…Mr. Babbage”—Ach-CHOO!—about the private gathering in Gaylord’s—” I keep my voice high and nasally.
She steps outside, swiftly slamming the door after her. “Yes, I delivered the message already. Nothing to worry about, he’s all set to go.” She eyes me suspiciously. “How about everyone else?”
“All present and accounted for.” I sneeze again, just for good measure.
She frowns. “Good…Listen, if you’re coming down with a cold, maybe it would be a better idea if you stay away from Gaylord. He’s a bear about the conference already. The last thing he needs is to get sick. He’d then blame me for hiring someone with typhus or something—”
I sniffle and nod. “If you say so. I feel so guilty, just staying in my room.”
She pats my shoulder, even as she steers me away from the cabin. “Not at all. We can all use a little rest and relaxation”—she blushes again—“Well, you know what I mean.” She stops, lost in thought. “And you’re in luck! We have the monks for the duration of the retreat. Frankly, I thought more of the guests would have snapped up appointments with them, but it seems that their dance card is pretty empty. With what we’re paying them, I hate to think that they’ll spend the rest of the time praying or meditating or just twiddling their thumbs. One of them intimated he was into golf, but a good stiff wind will send his robe flying, and he didn’t bring his khakis. Should I send them over to do a colonic on you?”
“Me?” Yikes. “Oh, no, please don’t bother! I’m sure some honey and lemon in my tea will fix me right up! I’ll be fine and dandy in the morning.”
And far away from here, if we’re lucky.
I wave as I head back into the woods.
I guess I should tell her that her shirt is inside out and that her buttons are crooked, but I’ll give Doreen that honor.
Chapter 18
RAID
In technology, the acronym RAID stands for "Redundant Array of Independent Disks." It is a method of storing data on multiple hard disks, but in such a way that your computer sees them all as one very large disk.
The good news is that within this configuration, they operate much more efficiently than a single hard drive.
As a parent, we look for efficiencies in all sectors of our lives. It is why we sometimes raid our children’s rooms and computers, looking for things that will make their lives more complicated than necessary—drugs, booze, troubled friends or over-age boyfriends–especially if it results in a school suspension or time in front of a judge.
The great news: within this parental configuration, your children will operate more efficiently without doing a single day of hard time.
“Now that we know Carl is here, we’ve all got to stay out of sight,” I warn Jack and Dominic.
Dominic smiles. “No problem there. Now that we’ve got location readings on all the targets’ cabins, we’re good to go on collecting the rest of the keys.”
Jack points to his latex Milton mask. “And I’m hiding in plain sight, remember? Unless we run into a snag, we’ll be long gone before they even serve dessert.”
“Let’s not be so cocky.” I don’t want to say it out loud, but seeing Carl here has spooked me.
“It works to our favor that there are no security cameras facing the guest quarters,” Jack reminds me. “So that we have an extra pair of eyes, the Acme satellite is pointed at Lark Island. Through it Arnie and Abu will track the whereabouts of our targets. He’ll know the minute they leave for the cocktail party. With dinner starting around eight, and ending by nine-thirty—maybe a quarter to ten—we should have plenty of time to find the game keys and search Carl’s room for the thumb drive containing the full stash of intel, then get the hell out by boat. Abu has it hidden in a cove, about a half mile from here. Take the path to the tennis courts, then veer right when you see the sign for deer crossing. Because everyone is freaked out over ticks, the path is rarely used. When we’re all aboard, we set sail for the closest airport—Roche Harbor, on the big island. George is waiting for us there.”
“The chickens have scattered,” Arnie murmurs in our ear buds.
“I’ll take Abdullah and Carl’s cabins,” Jack says. “Dominic, you take Ivan’s. Donna, that leaves you Ji Wong’s.”
“On it.” I grab a couple of towels from Jack’s bathroom.
“Where are you going with those?” he asks.
I shrug. “It’s my cover. Unlike you two, I’m a mere servant in this joint.”
When we reach the door, I caution them, “So that we keep track of each other, and the time, keep your ear buds on at all times.”
Before I’m over the threshold, Jack pulls me in for a kiss. It’s slow and gentle. It promises so much—mostly his return to me. Apparently, it’s also a vow: “This time, Carl goes down for good.”
I pray he’s right.
I’m still in my employee garb—in other words, invisible to those guests heading to the lodge for cocktails, and to the other Gryphon wonks who are scurrying about. The footpaths are clear. Still, it’s twilight, and the tall trees cast long shadows.
No one looks twice when I knock on Ji’s door with my stash of plush towels.
As Arnie predicted, there is no answer. I enter. The wood panel blinds are closed. The only light in the room illuminates a small Buddha seated on a small altar on the dresser.
I guess Ji won’t be leafing through the Gideon Bible in the bed stand drawer.
The closet holds two suitcases
. His clothes—mostly slacks and golf shirts—hang in the closet. One suitcase, a hanging bag, and a small valise are on the floor, along with three pairs of shoes: hiking boots, golf shoes, and sneakers.
I search the suitcases first. Nothing is inside of them, or in the pockets. I check for false bottoms, but come up empty-handed.
The same goes for the valise: empty.
The pockets of his clothes are the same: no little gold key.
I search his bed—under the sheets and pillows, the mattress, and the floor beneath it. His bed stand drawers are empty. The toiletries in the bathroom have no false bottoms or sides. He didn’t hide it in the toilet tank, or in the showerhead, or the soap dispenser.
I’m getting desperate. Did he take it with him?
“Donna, doll, check Buddha for a false bottom.” It’s Hal.
“It’s okay. Our little buddy has been cleared,” Arnie says, as if reading my mind. “He’s been scanning our teams’ lenses with me, and helping me watch the secure cam feed for trouble.”
“Arnie has a new bestie… Arnie has a new bestie…” Emma’s sing-song taunt isn’t cruel this time, but playful.
“Ah, you’re just jealous,” Arnie teases her back.
I lift Buddha and shake it. Hal is right—a false bottom.
I take the golden key, and I’m out of there.
“In the clear,” I murmur, as I walk toward Jack’s cabin.
“My first stop was successful,” Jack mutters back. “Now, on to Darth Vader’s lair.”
“Mr. Fleming, an ETA, please,” I ask.
“Finishing…up…now,” he gasps.
His breathing is labored. Oh no—did he run into trouble?
I take a detour toward Ivan’s cabin, just in case he needs help.
By the time I reach the door, he’s coming out of it, hopping into a shoe. His shirt is unbuttoned, too, revealing sculpted abs that are hairless and tanned.
“Jesus, Dominic,” I hiss. “What the hell were you doing in there?”
