by Ian Bull
Le Clerq and I ride from Malibu to Palm Springs without speaking. I cruise the Internet on my computer and read how to use GoPros for skydiving, skiing, surfing, and motorcycles. I watch Peter Heyman’s videos and see how he rigged the cameras. But broadcasting GoPro signals is new. The best videos are from skiers at the Olympics, but their Wi-Fi signals get picked up by hotspots every fifty feet and then fed into a TV truck. Making the CCTV cameras work is straightforward. He bought the expensive cameras, the kind you see in domes outside consulates and movie stars’ homes.
“Your friend Glenn bought one of each camera,” Le Clerq says as we tear through the Coachella Valley. “They’re on the backseat.”
I rip open the boxes and read the instructions. I pull out my Leatherman tool and take them apart, using my computer case as a workbench.
Le Clerq’s phone rings. He looks over at me. “You ready to take this call?” I nod, and Le Clerq puts the phone on the dash and answers. “Le Clerq here. Peter, is that you?”
“It sure is,” Peter’s voice says through the speaker.
“I’m halfway to Phoenix, and I’ve got Vic Lowry next to me.”
“Hey Peter, Vic here. I’ve been watching your videos.”
“How did you find them?” he asks. “I’ve pulled most of them down.”
“I’m a techie. I’m pretty good on the Deep Web.”
There’s a long silence. Le Clerq’s Cadillac crosses the last ridge of the Coachella Valley and descends through yellow desert toward the Colorado River. To the left are Joshua trees scattered among boulders, like raisins in a vast oatmeal cookie baking in the sun.
“I’ve been looking for you, too. Couldn’t find much, though,” Peter finally says.
“I like to work on the DL. I’ve been on the run,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Le Clerq.
“How would you handle six guys wearing six GoPros in a metal room?” Peter asks.
“You want to pick up six solid and discrete signals and broadcast them?”
“Or more. And it’s got to work with a lot of solid metal all around.”
“I’d use a Terradeck. It can grab multiple discreet signals, and then feed those through a laptop before feeding them into a broadcast truck.”
“There’s no truck, but you’ll learn that later. They want the cameras to zoom, too.”
“You mean the control room will want to zoom in, or will there be a director on set?”
“From the control room.”
“The GoPros broadcast in 1080i, so they can punch in twenty-five percent without resolution loss. The CCTVs you bought are awesome. They can zoom in with no discernible loss, either by remote control, or we can set them up so they zoom in automatically on movement.”
There’s another long pause. I poke Simon and gesture for him to say something, but he just shrugs. Peter finally answers, “You sound like you’ll fit in. Gotta go.”
“Wait! Where do we meet you?” Le Clerq asks.
“Call me when you get to Phoenix. Did you bring all your identification, Vic? We have to do a background check the moment you arrive.”
“It’s in my wallet,” I say.
“Get ready for a wild ride.” Peter hangs up.
A long silver ribbon glints in the sun in front of us. It’s the Colorado River, running through the Mojave Desert. On the other side is Arizona.
Simon laughs loud and hard. “Once I drop you off, I get another $20,000. This is the easiest $30,000 I’ve ever made.”
Chapter 37
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 12: Wednesday
Malibu, California
Special Agent Taylor and Detective Mendoza stand by the fireplace, refusing to sit down and or sip the iced tea I’ve offered them. Agent Taylor wears a red tie in the middle of his drab grayness today; maybe the color matches his mood. Mendoza wears the same suit he always does, but the Hello Kitty sticker is gone.
“When we heard that Simon Le Clerq dropped all his charges,” Mendoza says, “we found his lawyer, Howard Balog, who told us that Steven Quintana is still alive.”
“So? You both knew that already.”
“We didn’t know he was attending meetings at Hollywood agencies,” Taylor says.
“You didn’t alert us when he returned to Los Angeles.” Mendoza wags his finger at me like I’ve been naughty. “Instead, we find out about it from a bottom feeder like Balog.”
“And you should have kept my mugshot out of the paper,” I say. “I gave you Steven’s computer, and the best leads you’ve had in eighteen months, both for my case and for finding who killed Rikki Lassen.”
“That’s celebrity logic,” Mendoza says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You think that because you’ve been publicly embarrassed you get to ignore the law? That’s not how it works, and you’re about to learn that in a big way,” Mendoza says, staring down at me while rocking on his heels.
The back of my neck tingles. I should remember my martial arts training—breathe slow and let go. But I don’t. It’s my Viking blood; if I had a battle-axe, I’d chop these guys in half.
“I survived kidnapping, torture, and attempted murder before I met either of you. And you haven’t found anyone behind it all.” I rise off the couch, my finger jabbing back at them. “But Steven found them. He was the one who saved my life a year and a half ago. Not you. Him. And I’ll do everything I can to protect him.”
Trishelle rises as well and grabs the tray off the coffee table. “I guess I’ll just put these iced teas back in the fridge then.” She disappears into the kitchen.
Mendoza pulls handcuffs off his belt. “Turn around, please. I’m arresting you for obstruction of justice.”
My mouth goes dry. I should have kept my Viking mouth shut. I turn, and he pushes me against the back of the couch and clicks the handcuffs into place.
Glenn emerges from the kitchen. “Steven Quintana is on Highway 10 and just crossed into Arizona. He’s in a car with Simon Le Clerq, and he’s wearing a GPS tag,” he says, holding up his cellphone.
Mendoza and Taylor stare at him and the image on his phone, frozen.
“And who are you?” Mendoza asks.
“I’m Major Glenn Ward, US Army. I work for the NSA and for DARPA, but I’m on leave this month. Carl Webb asked me to help out.” The front gate buzzes, making us jump. Glenn heads back into the kitchen. “In fact, that’s Mr. Webb now. I’ll buzz him in.”
For the first time since I met them, Mendoza and Taylor look shocked, which gives Glenn time to open the door. Carl strides in, wearing the same suit he had on almost two weeks ago. The man travels light. Besides his tan fading a bit, he looks the same.
“Man, I have good timing!” Carl shakes hands all around. “Agent Taylor…Detective Mendoza…Major Ward…Julia,” he says, then winks.
Easing in behind him is man who looks like Steven, but with more gray and an extra twenty pounds. He glances around the beach house with nervous eyes, like he’s landed on an alien world. Carl encourages him to step forward.
“Mr. Mendoza, Mr. Taylor, this is Steven Quintana’s brother, Anthony. We’re all here for the right reasons. Can you please take the cuffs off?” Carl asks.
Anthony and I make eye contact and trade tiny nods. His family doesn’t love me.
“We’re bringing her in,” Taylor says.
“The clock is ticking. Whatever is going to happen is just hours away, now,” Carl says, and motions to Glenn to speak up.
“When Steven returned to Los Angeles two days ago, and he and Julia didn’t contact the police, I alerted Mr. Webb,” Glenn says. “And we put this plan into motion. Quintana is wearing a GPS tracker and is on route to Arizona to be a crew member on the reality show he uncovered.”
“Can we turn off that stereo?” Anthony asks. “That music is giving me a headache.”
“How about we put on some classical and whisper? We can all sit in the living room and catch up, with the c
uffs off. What do you say?” Carl asks Mendoza.
I’m still mad at Carl and Glenn about the way they put their last plan into motion, but Carl does have great timing, and knows how to work his charm.
Detective Mendoza undoes the handcuffs. I plop down on the couch and rub blood back into my hands and fingers. “I’ll explain everything, but it’ll take a while.”
“I’ll make us some sandwiches and coffee,” Trishelle says.
Chapter 38
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 12: Wednesday Afternoon
Phoenix, Arizona
“Welcome to the Rainbow Valley,” Le Clerq says as he heads south from Phoenix, toward the Sonoran Desert. “It never rains here, so I don’t think we’ll see a frickin’ rainbow.”
“Do you ever have anything good to say?” I ask as we zoom over the bridge that crosses the nearly dry Gila River. The late winter sky is low on the horizon in front of us, bouncing warm yellow light into our eyes. We both drop our car visors.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Le Clerq asks as he stubs out another cigarette in the ashtray. The car stinks of six hours of stale butts.
“If the desert were in full bloom with unicorns dancing, you’d still make a snide comment.”
“You really are Ranger Rick the Boy Scout.” He points out the window. “You’re telling me that’s pretty? That you want to live here?”
We zoom past trailer parks and paved subdivision roads that lead nowhere, carved into the desert before the 2008 economic crash.
“Are we there yet?” I ask, avoiding the argument.
“The GPS says that Estrella Road ends right up here.”
Sure enough, the paved, four-lane road ends abruptly at a wood fence with red reflectors. A dirt road starts on the other side, stretching toward brown, cactus-covered mountains in the distance.
Le Clerq brings his air-conditioned nightmare to a stop and raises his palms. “This is where he told me to meet him.”
On cue, a Humvee rises out of the hidden dry riverbed fifty yards beyond the fence and races toward us in a cloud of dust. It’s a military surplus vehicle with desert camouflage, canvas doors, spare gasoline and water tanks strapped to the side, and a long, curved radio antenna coming out the back. It’s prepped to go a long way over rough terrain. I rode many miles in machines like that. Hell, I may have ridden in that exact one.
The Humvee skids to a stop and a man steps out, dressed in black from head to toe except for a red bandana tied to his bald head and another tied across his face. He vaults the fence and waits, staring at us. I ease out of the passenger side with my backpack. Le Clerq stays put.
“Aren’t you getting out, too?” I ask Le Clerq through the open door.
“If I don’t need to eat, shit, or pee, I ain’t moving. I can do all my business sitting behind the wheel,” Le Clerq says, and rolls down his window. He sticks out his hand and waves. “Peter? Simon Le Clerq. I’m good friends with Hank at SportCam.”
The man moves closer to the Cadillac, his eyes piercing blue in the slit between his two bandanas. He looks like bank robber from the 1880s.
“I’m Vic Lowry,” I say. “We just talked on the phone?”
“You’re still down for this?” he asks. His voice is muffled behind the bandana.
“Making a year’s salary in five days? You bet I’m down.”
“You must agree to do everything I say. I’m going to test you. Work you. Change you. Transform you. You must submit,” he growls. He points at me. “If you are worthy of joining us, then you will belong to something larger than you could ever imagine.”
I blink at Le Clerq, who raises his hands, as confused as I am. I look back at Peter, who points at me like he wants my soul.
I hate his type. I’ve met many religious fanatics, sociopaths, and power-tripping megalomaniacs, first as a soldier in war and then a paparazzo in Hollywood. Some tried to kill me. But to find the men in charge, I must now endure this clown.
“I’ll submit. I’ve always wanted to belong to something,” I say, shrugging. Today, I’m just Vic Lowry—a hardworking, down-on-his-luck camera expert who needs direction in life.
“Take off your clothes,” he says to me.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Le Clerq chuckles behind the wheel. He turns the car radio on low and finds a classic rock station, and I start to strip to AC/DC at the forlorn end of a paved road. I stack my clothes in a pile in front of him, place my backpack on top, and then step back at naked attention, cupping my balls like I did on my first day in the Army.
He spots my wounds and purple blue bruises running up my left side. “You got shot.”
“I’m in trouble with the law. I’ve been on the run. It’s a long story.”
“Get ready to tell it.”
Peter shakes out every piece of clothing and goes through every pocket. He pockets the new “Vic Lowry” driver’s license and credit card that Glenn gave me, but nothing else. He goes through the backpack and finds the cellphone, the iPad, and the GoPros, but tosses it all back through the open passenger window with my clothes.
“You can go now,” he says to Le Clerq, then turns back to me. “Get in the Humvee.”
“Are you going to make me walk?” I ask.
Peter doesn’t answer—he just narrows his eyes at me.
“If I’m going to walk, I need my underwear and my shoes. I’ve had a hernia repair and my dingleberries need support, and I broke my left foot as a kid and I need ankle support,” I plead. “I don’t have to wear them unless you say.”
He stares at me. “Get them.”
I dig through the pile on the front passenger seat and pull out my Jockey briefs and my Reeboks, and place them in front of him. He peers inside the shoes, but doesn’t stare at the heel where I’ve hidden the AmEx card, thank God. He stuffs my underwear inside one shoe, then waves for me to follow as he leaps back over the wooden fence.
“Good luck!” Le Clerq says, and zooms away $20,000 richer.
I vault over the wooden fence and land on sharp rocks, then tiptoe on tender feet to the Humvee and climb in. “Where are we going?”
“There,” Peter says, pointing at the mountains in the distance, and then slams the car into gear. “That’s where you’ll be initiated into the tribe.”
“What mountains are those?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He speeds toward them as the sun sinks in the sky behind us.
We reach the mountains. The steep ridges reflect red and orange, with the deep valleys in between darkening to black. The city of Phoenix is on the other side, but it feels like we’re a million miles from civilization. The temperature drops fast in the desert, and I shiver, still naked. My underwear and shoes are on the backseat, but I dare not reach for them. Peter sees my discomfort and yanks out a long gray blanket from behind him.
“It’s a tunic. There are holes for your head and arms. Put it on.”
I stick my head and limbs through, and it covers to below my knees. It’s rough wool, but at least it’s warm.
“You can put on your underwear and shoes now, too,” Peter says.
I dig them out of the back and yank them on. It feels good to get all my tender spots covered. “I look like a disciple,” I say.
“You’re a novitiate first, a disciple second,” he says, and turns the Humvee off the dirt road and up loose sandstone. We’re heading to a steep and narrow finger valley.
“So what’s the job? What kind of show is it?” I ask.
“If you pass your initiation, then all will be revealed,” he growls, his voice muffled through the bandanas he’s still wearing on his head and face. What is this guy’s power trip? Is he a cult leader? Survivalist? A nutball preparing for the apocalypse?
The Humvee bounces between two large boulders and we enter the shadow of the valley, dark walls rising above us. Hundreds of saguaro cactuses line the steep ridges and ravines, looking down on us like tall green men on sen
try duty. The driving is smooth now; we’re on a dry, sandy creek bed which must run with water during the summer monsoons. The shadow of a hawk flies overhead and disappears in the dusk.
At the back of the finger canyon is a fifty-foot-square stretch of sand, like a dry beach, where two more Humvees are parked. There’s a roaring campfire dead center, ringed with stones.
“Go sit by the fire and warm up,” Peter says.
I exit the car and walk toward the flames, like a bible shepherd wearing Reeboks. Five people sit cross-legged around the fire pit—two men and three women—and I sit between them. Their faces become clear as my eyes adjust.
The woman to my right has a shock white crew cut and blue skin, along with pointed ears and two metallic antennae sprouting from her forehead like an insect. “I’m Bree,” she says. She smiles and sticks her tongue out at me. It’s split like a serpent’s. Her whole getup looks like a costume, but it’s not. She’s been tattooed, pierced, implanted, and modified.
The man next to her is hard to look at. His face is pierced in hundreds of places with little pieces of metal so he looks like he’s wearing a metal mask, and he’s got a bone through his nose like an Amazonian native. He’s shirtless, with bone and wood piercings running down the front of his body in two rows like suspenders. “I’m Michel.”
There’s another woman to my left, a pretty brunette with a bobbed haircut, red lipstick, and big hoop earrings. She looks like a flapper from the ’20s, until she hugs her knees and reveals she has peace sign implants embedded under the skin of her forearms and upper arms. Looking closer, the earrings are actually silver disks embedded in her stretched earlobes. “My name is Zena.”
The woman past Zena looks like a jaguar, with tattooed skin, whiskers, and a cat’s nose. She purrs and smiles, and she’s got yellow, vertical cat eyes. Her ears are also pointed. The face could be plastic surgery, but the eyes must be contacts. “I’m Dreya.”
The man next to Dreya is African American. At least, I think he started that way, and then tattooed all the skin on his body jet black. What should be the whites of his eyes are actually bright yellow. His smile reveals long, sharpened canine teeth that look like implants. “I’m Panther,” he says, which makes total sense.
