by E. Z. Rinsky
Sampson looks half ecstatic, half mortified at this news. Mindy’s chest is rising and falling rapidly.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Maybe you’d like to meet somewhere public next week once we’ve secured the last eight? A movie theater lobby?”
A sound sort of like a grunt. Long hiss.
“I want to meet today. Today or the price goes up.”
“Rico . . .” I say. “Be reasonable. Nobody can summon eight million dollars on a day’s notice.”
A long pause. Sampson is close to tearing out his hair.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“Tomorrow?” I say, and look to Sampson, who quickly nods: Yes, I can get it by tomorrow. “Okay. Tomorrow. Where should we meet? Maybe a mall?”
“No . . .” He trails off for a second. “It will be a restaurant in downtown Denver. I’ll tell you the exact one at five. You’ll wear bright yellow raincoats. Bring the money in a pink gym bag.”
“Raincoats?” I ask. “It hasn’t rained here in weeks.”
A modified chuckle. This is a first from Rico.
“I’m aware. Don’t bring weapons. If I see weapons, it’s over.”
“Okay, listen, Rico, I want to tell you in advance there’s going to be three of us alright? Me, my partner, and Mindy—who you know. She’s just coming to make sure you give us the real thing okay?”
A long pause. Sampson wrings his massive hands. Crackly breathing.
“No. Three is too many. One of you and the girl. If I see three of you I’ll burn the books, and send some photos of Sampson to the Denver Post. I have a few that capture some rather unflattering angles.”
The Senator’s left eye twitches.
“We’re not going to try any shit, but there’s going to be three of us.”
I look up at Courtney, who nods in understanding. Having three would be nice, but more important is pushing him slightly—the way he reacts will tell us a lot about his intentions here.
“No. One of you and the girl.”
Sampson spreads his hands, his face like: Give him what he wants!
I await a hand gesture from Courtney to tell me whether to push again. I’m sure he’s already calculating the risks of this operation. He holds up two fingers: Two is okay.
“Fine. Two.”
He hangs up. The four of us stare at the phone for a long silent moment.
“Well,” Courtney finally says. “The good news is I’m pretty sure he’s serious. If you can get the money Senator, I’m quite confident he’ll go through with the swap.”
Courtney and I take Sampson’s second car, a Lexus, into downtown Aspen to shop with Sampson’s credit card. We buy canary-yellow raincoats from a sporting goods store (pretty sure this demand of Rico’s is just for humiliation purposes), and a pair of sleek walkie-talkies. We find a flamingo-pink tennis bag at a golf and tennis shop, but Courtney isn’t satisfied with the material.
“It’s too thin,” he says. “I want one with thick fabric, so I can sew in a GPS chip.”
It takes me a second to understand his angle.
“You sly dog!” I smack him on the back. “You want to track down the money for ourselves once we’re done with Sampson?”
He shrugs.
“Might as well keep our options open.”
I grin.
“Now you’re talking.”
We have to leave Aspen to find a suitably robust pink gym bag. And then with our own dwindling supply of cash we buy the items we don’t want Sampson to know about. Rico said no weapons, but everyone says no weapons. There’s no way we’re going to meet with this guy unarmed.
Courtney has permits for New York, Florida and California, which satisfies the fifth store we try. We both get small-frame Smith and Wesson .22 Magnums. They’re a little dainty, and don’t have great range, but are small enough to strap to our ankles or thighs. I also get a half-serrated ceramic hunting knife.
Once that’s over we realize there’s frustratingly little more to prepare for the following evening—especially because we don’t even know the exact place we’re meeting him. Besides, seems likely the first restaurant will just be to scope us out, then he’ll call us and tell us to go somewhere else. That’s what I’d do, anyways.
We come back to the estate in the early evening. Lights are on in Mindy’s guesthouse. Sampson’s Hummer isn’t in the driveway. Guess he’s out getting eight million dollars. Not asking how. Less I know the better. I keep reminding myself his long-term well-being is not my problem—we’ll make this swap and be out of here in two days. Don’t owe Sampson anything once the job is done. If he wants to liquidate some holdings to buy back some crazy ass books, fine.
“Court, come to the guesthouse with me,” I say. “I want to talk to Mindy.”
“Why?” he asks.
“This morning during the phone call with Rico . . .” I shake my head. “She’s not telling us everything.”
I rap on the door of the guesthouse. Nothing, but the lights are on, so I knock hard. Finally she turns the lock and pulls the door in. She stands in the entranceway, very much not inviting us in.
“What?” she asks. She’s a wreck. Eczema-pocked hands jittery like she’s over-caffeinated. Glasses smudged with what might well be peanut butter. Over her shoulder I see her open laptop on her dining room table, and a small forest’s worth of scattered papers.
“We just want to talk,” I say. Courtney opens his mouth, looks apologetic, as if to say well, he wants to talk.
“I don’t have time now,” she says.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
She squints at me like I’m crazy to ask that.
“I said I’m busy. I’m sorry. We can talk tomorrow morning.”
She starts to shut the door, but I catch it with my hand.
“What’s going on with you?” I say. “Do you even want these books back? Have you been in touch with Rico yourself?”
Her face instantly goes pink with rage.
“I’m sorry,” Courtney says. “We didn’t mean—”
“Of course I haven’t been in touch with Rico!” she shrieks, at a pitch that feels like it’s splitting my skull in half. Her shrill cry hangs in the dry air for a moment. Then she narrows her eyes. “Listen, you two have been in town what, two days? You think you have everything figured out?”
“No, of course not,” mumbles Courtney.
“We know Sampson cut off something near and dear to him,” I retort. “If that’s what you’re referring to.”
Her face darkens.
“Yes.” She nods. “And that’s just the beginning. What did I tell you? You two don’t want to get involved in this. And you’re both probably still too stubborn to take my advice, but here it is: Don’t ask any more questions. Just do your job tomorrow and then get as far away from this house as you can. I sure as hell wish someone had told that to me eight years ago.”
Courtney and I stare blankly at her. She takes a step back, and slams the door shut. We stand in the darkness for a moment, then turn and head back to the main house.
“What a peach,” I mutter.
Courtney doesn’t respond.
We enter the main house through the front door. It’s the first time we’ve been in the main body—outside our guest rooms—after the sun’s gone down. Courtney turns on the flashlight on his phone and we probe the glass walls in the foyer for light switches.
“Wait,” I say, after a few fruitless minutes. “Is it possible there just aren’t any lights in here?”
Courtney explores the pink-tinted ceiling—the floor of the second level—with his light.
“You may just be right,” he says.
“Christ,” I say. “Not exactly user friendly.”
In the glow of Courtney’s phone, we make our way to the side stairwell, neither of us particularly enthusiastic about walking down the second-floor hallway again. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our rooms.
I look at Courtney before retreating into my r
oom.
“Do you trust Sampson?” I ask. “Just your gut.”
Courtney hesitates for a moment.
“I do, actually. I believe his desperation, and that he wouldn’t dare risk endangering the swap by not telling us everything.” He pauses. “What do you think about Mindy?” he asks.
I chuckle.
“Well, she just basically admitted that she’s holding out on us. So no, I don’t trust her.”
“No I mean, like, what do you think of her? Like . . .” Courtney clears his throat. “As a woman.”
An involuntary snort escapes my nose.
“Courtney, as your friend, I sincerely urge you to steer clear of that train wreck,” I say. “But more importantly, you need to stay focused. This job should be over tomorrow, then we’re out of here. Keep your feet on the ground.”
“Right, right.” Courtney nods quickly, abashedly. “Of course. Thanks, Frank. Good night.”
Sweet relief as I enter my opaque, illuminated room. Realize I’m too wired to just read and conk out. I’m excited about getting paid, and a new Social Security number.
I pull out the iPhone, and quickly enter Sadie’s number. Don’t allow myself to agonize over it, just grit my teeth and call my daughter for the first time in months. Two rings.
“Hello?”
My heart leaps at the smallness of her voice.
“Hey Sadie. This . . . hey, it’s Dad.”
I wish I didn’t notice the brief silence before she responds.
“Oh. Hey Dad. How are you?”
“I’m great. I mean, fine. But working. Courtney and I, we have another big job. It could be huge for us. I don’t want to get into details but I’m hoping I’ll be able to come visit you at school pretty soon.”
“Oh wow.”
“Yeah! It’s really quite a funny situation, I can’t wait to tell you all about it. But what about you? How are you? How’s school and everything?”
“It’s good. Fine. I’m actually about to crash. Have a big test in the morning, so.”
“Oh, sure sure. But listen, sweetie, really great to hear your voice. I’ll call you back soon, okay?”
“Sure. Sounds good. ’Bye.”
“I love you.”
“You too.”
I drop the phone on the bed. I’m sweating heavily, and breathing so hard I’m practically wheezing.
“Big test in the morning?” “You too?”
Disaster. Total disaster.
To calm down I draw a warm bath and float for about a half hour. Close my eyes and try not to think about that call. Instead run through the call with Rico. The extra eight he demanded.
He probably never meant for this to drag on so long. But once he realized the extent of Sampson’s desperation . . .
I dry myself off and check my watch. Ten at night.
I’m still shaken from that call with Sadie. What if I get my money and identity, fly down to see her and she doesn’t want to see me?
Better sleep before I slip too far down that rabbit hole.
I pop a Benadryl, wash it down with a couple swigs from a twenty-year-old scotch I found in Sampson’s kitchen. If he’s a recovering alcoholic, it’s almost like I’m doing him a favor.
I stare out the window at the tennis court, savoring the feeling of my brain winding down, eyes getting droopy . . .
. . . My eyes snap open. It’s still dark outside. Watch says three twenty in the morning. Don’t know how I’m this wide awake after my Benadryl cocktail. I was having a dream similar to last night’s: A creature with extra limbs scaling a wall, except this time it was Sadie’s head atop that twisted body, horrible extra arms protruding from between its shoulder blades.
I get out of bed and look out the window. I’m as alert as if somebody splashed cold water on my face.
Nearly pitch black; Sampson doesn’t keep any perimeter lights on at night.
There’s a sick kind of feeling in my chest. It’s the sort of queasy discomfort I remember feeling once sitting in the doctor’s examination room, waiting for him to come back and tell me some test results. I turn on the bedside lamp, hoping it will calm me down, but it doesn’t. Forehead damp with sweat. Am I having a panic attack?
That’s when I realize there’s been a sound this whole time. Maybe that’s what woke me up? It’s faint, but undeniable: some kind of smacking sound coming from outside my bedroom door, one crack every thirty seconds or so.
I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I just let this go . . .
I grab the flashlight out of my bag and pad out into the hall barefoot. The sound is much more distinct out here. Coming from inside the house. I rap lightly on Courtney’s door, honestly because I’m a little creeped out. Nothing. Flirt with the idea of really banging on his door, but some primordial part of my brain doesn’t want to make any noise now, in case the sound is a predator—don’t want to rouse its attention.
As soon as I turn my flashlight away from Courtney’s door, to the rest of the house, it’s like someone shined a floodlight on it. The walls magnify the weak beam like mirrors. Quickly I wrap the flashlight in my shirt, putting several layers over the glow until there’s just barely enough for me to see my way.
But there’s another light source. It’s in the wing adjacent to mine, across the yard. I squint. It’s not strong, but it’s there, flickering. I think it’s a candle.
I take a deep breath and start walking. To reach the light source I’ll have to go to the Spine, then turn left into the other wing.
The glass is cool on my feet. I find the transparent floors are less dizzying at night, because you can’t really see so much stuff below you.
The cracking becomes more distinct as I near the Spine. It’s consistent. One every half minute. With each crack I feel a slight reverberation in the glass under my feet. This house is like an echo chamber.
I turn left into the other wing, and look at the glowing disc of light which defines the candle. It’s below my feet, and perhaps fifteen meters in front of me. It’s in the second-floor hallway—the “limb” hallway, and I’m still on the top floor. I find a spiral staircase and delicately feel my way down, until I’m level with the light source. The crack is definitely coming from the source of the light, but I can’t see anything because of the glare on the several panes of glass between us. There’s another sound intermingled with the cracking. A low wail. A kind of ghostly moan.
I switch off the flashlight now. There’s enough light from the candle a few rooms away to make my way forward. I put a hand against the cold glass wall of the hallway to steady myself. The cracking and wailing grow louder. I drop to my stomach so I won’t be seen. Finally, when I’m about a meter away, I can clearly make out the source of the sound.
It’s one of the identical rooms with the blue glass floor, and intricate pipe arrangement hanging from the ceiling. Sampson is on his knees, totally naked, facing away from me. His back is pecked with a hundred red spots. Tiny lacerations. The glass immediately behind him is cloudy with bloody dots. He raises a hand to the ceiling and I see it’s grasping a kind of multi-tailed whip. He flicks his wrist, and the tendrils of the whip smack into his back, opening a host of new wounds, and sending flecks of blood shooting backwards onto the glass wall behind him.
The whole time he’s moaning softly, a mantra. It takes me some time to discern it as: “Sophnot, for my father, my king . . .” And with each flick of his wrist he gasps a number. “twenty-seven, Sophnot, for my father my king, twenty-eight . . .”
I stay flat on my stomach, observing in horror, numbers twenty-seven through thirty-two, and then retreat backwards, get back to my room as quickly as I can and lock the door.
I don’t sleep another second that night. Just stare at the ceiling until Courtney timidly knocks on my door a few minutes after nine.
I roll out of bed, pull on an old Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt, and a baggy pair of jeans I treated myself to with Sampson’s card; baggy enough that I can strap the Magnum to my
left calf, and the ceramic knife on my right, without attracting attention. I must be wearing last night’s Sampson sighting on my face, because Courtney says:
“You need to stop taking sleeping aids, Frank. It’s not real sleep when you drug yourself.”
Courtney doesn’t look so well rested himself: dark purple bags under his eyes, high forehead more crinkled with worry than usual.
“Someday I hope to talk you into self-medicating. It will really change your life.”
“I always sleep well,” he says. “It’s because of all the greens in my diet. I just stayed up late reviewing the Rico file. Then had to sew the GPS chip in the lining.” He nods to the empty pink bag slung over his shoulder. “Was like a little surgery.”
“I guarantee I had a worse night than you,” I say, image of bloodstained glass suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye. I pull Courtney into the stone-enclosed side stairwell.
“You know what you asked, about trusting Sampson?” I ask him.
His eyes narrow.
“Yes.”
As I describe what I saw the night before, Courtney’s face contorts like he’s sucking on a lime.
“Well,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Unsettling. But is it really that surprising?” he asks. “As you put it, he’s been brainwashed. This just confirms it’s not an act.”
I rub my eyes.
“Guess you’re right. Someday it would be nice to get hired by someone with their head screwed on a little straighter.”
Courtney grins.
“They don’t pay nearly as well.”
In the guesthouse, Sampson is wearing blue slacks, a white button-down and a generic red striped tie. He’s not eating, just sipping on a Diet Pepsi, and his forehead is creased with worry. He looks exhausted, and I wish I didn’t know why.
Across the table from him, Mindy is munching on honeydew, taken from a brand-new fruit plate. Today she’s wearing a red tank top which isn’t doing much to hide the surprisingly dramatic contours of her upper body from the two undersexed private investigators sitting down across the breakfast table from her.
Maybe all this time around de-libidoed Sampson has made her forget the lurid gaze of men. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a shit. She’s perky this morning; seems surprisingly refreshed.
