by David Meyer
“What’s there to work on?” he asked.
“The original documents weren’t exactly in pristine condition. The ink was faded and the pages were torn and ripped. Plus, Justin’ handwriting is a bear to unscramble, even for my systems. And it looks like he used shorthand in multiple locations. Long story short, it’s going to take a few more hours. But before this weekend is out, I should be able to tell you exactly how he pulled it off.”
Ben pictured his father in his mind. Roy had never told his son about that dark day. But after the man’s death, Ben had found piles upon piles of notes about the missing trucks. He’d pored through the information, amazed and inspired by his father’s audacious, but ill-fated plan to remake the world.
But that didn’t mean the past could be laid to rest. No, that strange moment in 1949 still mattered. Now, more than ever. If the trucks ever came to light, they would threaten all of Ben’s carefully laid plans. That was where his daughter came in. She was working to track them down, to make sure they stayed missing.
So far, she’d done an excellent job of it. She’d used her systems to figure out what Cy’s dad, Drew Reed, had been trying to do shortly before his premature death. She’d tracked down Justin’s safe deposit box using long-forgotten records. She’d staged a riot to occupy the police while manipulating Cy into retrieving the box for her.
“How are things on your end?” Willow asked.
“Fine, thanks to you.”
“Speaking of which, why’d you turn on Terry?”
“She turned on us,” Ben explained. “And threatened to undo the transactions.”
Inspired by his father’s desire to bring about world peace, Ben had come up with his own plan to do the same months earlier. It was incredibly simple, especially given the gigantic amount of debt accumulated by the U.S. government over the years.
At its heart was the Working Group on Capital Markets, a.k.a. the so-called Plunge Protection Team. The PPT, created by President Reagan in 1988, consisted of the Secretary of the Treasury, the Chairperson of the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Chairperson of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, and the Chairperson of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Or, in people terms, Terry Horst, Lori Scott, Harold Sanchez, and himself. Over the years, the PPT had gradually soaked up power during times of crisis. Now, it regularly—and illegally—bought massive quantities of individual stocks, index funds, and stock index futures in order to stabilize the marketplace.
Nine months ago, Ben had convinced Horst, Scott, and Sanchez that America’s economy was destined to collapse from excess debt and that it was up to them to soften the blow. It wasn’t a hard sell. All four of them had spent their careers as modern-day Cassandras, warning anyone who would listen that the U.S. economy was in desperate straits.
And so, they decided to bring about a controlled collapse of the American economy. It was inevitable anyway. Really, all they were doing was speeding up the timetable.
America’s undoing would ruin the global economy. In the aftermath, the PPT would work with its overseas counterparts to build a currency system overseen by global governance. Then the long, painful process of recovery could begin. But for Ben, there was a secondary motive beyond helping America through an unavoidable collapse. When the entire world was under one flag, there would be no more nationalism, no more strife. No more war. At long last, all of humanity would be on the same side, ready to face the challenges of tomorrow. Finally, Roy’s dream of world peace would become a reality.
“Before I forget, there’s one more thing you need to know,” Willow said.
“Go on.”
“Cy is still alive.”
Ben sucked in a deep breath. “I see.”
After Justin’s disappearing act, Roy had deliberately befriended the man’s son, Drew Reed. At the time, it had seemed perfectly normal. But now, Ben recognized it as a strategic move, designed to keep tabs on the Reed family in the event that Justin ever reappeared.
As a result, the Marvins and the Reeds had been good friends for many years. Although he’d never known Justin, Ben had been close to Drew all the way up to the man’s untimely death. More recently, their respective kids—Willow and Cy—had gotten to know each other. He couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling Willow had a bit of a crush on the modern day swashbuckler.
“Don’t worry,” Willow said. “I know where to find him. He’s holed up in his family’s old brownstone. He probably figured I wouldn’t find it since it’s not in his name. I should have the problem resolved within the hour.”
“Actually, wait.” Ben paused in mid-pace. His head rolled skyward as his brain went to work.
He’d always liked Cy. But the missing trucks took precedence over the friendship. That was why he’d instructed Willow to use the man. To enlist him in a quest to find the lost Capitalist Curtain papers. Unfortunately, that plan had a downside, namely the fact that Cy might use those papers to find the trucks for himself. And so, he’d reluctantly ordered the death of his old friend.
But things had changed. And Cy could still be useful to him. Very useful, in fact.
“Does Cy know about Capitalist Curtain?” he asked.
“He helped me photograph the papers. So, yes. He probably knows about it.”
“How much?”
“It’s difficult to say. I don’t know if he took the originals with him when he fled the vault.”
Ben weighed the costs and benefits in his head. Cy’s presence would add a certain gravity to the next step in his plans. But what if he did have the originals? What if he discovered the truth about Justin’s role in the Capitalist Curtain affair and worse, decided to look into the matter?
“Focus on deciphering those papers,” Ben said after a moment. “I’ll take care of Cy.”
CHAPTER 33
“You’re alive?” I blinked. “You’re alive!”
I leapt onto the mattress, onto her. My body, sore and exhausted, suddenly came alive. We rolled once, then twice, all the way to the opposite side of the bed. And then I was kissing her, holding her, rubbing her, touching her. I couldn’t get enough of her.
After a few seconds, Beverly broke off the embrace. She pulled her head back and stared at me, confusion clouding her violet eyes. “Alive? Why wouldn’t I be alive?”
“Cy? Are you—?” Graham raced into the room, wielding a lamp like it was a club. He froze. A look of pure disbelief came over his face. “Holy hell.”
“Dutch?” Beverly looked at him, then back at me. “What’s wrong with you two?”
“We thought you were dead.” Sitting up, I quickly ran through the events of the evening, starting with Malware’s first text and finishing with the moment we saw—or thought we saw—Beverly die.
She listened quietly and didn’t ask questions. Afterward, she tossed her hair back, fixing it into a ponytail. “So, you really thought I let myself get kidnapped? You should know me better than that.”
“But the videos,” Graham said. “And your purse …”
“I don’t know about the videos, but I did lose my clutch.” She frowned. “Wait. How’d you know about that?”
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the small, bloodstained purse. “Because we found it.”
Squealing with delight, she grabbed the purse and began rifling through it, checking the contents.
As I watched her, I recalled Malware’s first video. I remembered Beverly’s humiliating restraints and the insane fear in her eyes. That should’ve been my first clue that I wasn’t looking at the real thing. Nothing scared Beverly.
Nothing.
For a long moment, I studied her. Her hair was mussed, frizzy. Her dress, a hot black formal number, was covered with dried sweat and blood. She didn’t look hurt, but she’d clearly been in a fight. “So, that was our evening,” I said with a crooked grin. “How was yours?”
“A couple of guys followed me while I was walking to the Explorers Society. When the riot started, they went into a
ttack mode. They had weapons, even one of those bean bag guns. Not that it did them much good.” Frowning, she sorted through her purse for a second time. “My phone’s gone.”
“Those guys must’ve taken it,” I said. “That’s how Malware first contacted me.”
“How’d you end up here?” Graham asked.
“I love a good riot as much as the next girl, but not in this thing.” She waved dismissively at her dress. “The guys who attacked me knew my name and other stuff, too. So, I didn’t want to go home or anywhere else I could be tracked. Cy told me about this place a long time ago and I figured it was time for a visit.”
“How’d you get past my security?” I asked.
She arched an eyebrow as if to say, Really? Have you even seen the stuff I’m capable of doing?.
“Actually, forget I asked.” I rubbed my jaw. “So, Malware tried to kidnap you first. When that failed, she staged it.”
“But how?” Graham asked. “I saw that last video. Sure didn’t look fake to me.”
“But it was grainy,” I replied. “And unfocused. Malware must’ve captured video of Beverly during the fight and layered it over another movie.”
He looked confused. “You’re saying she killed some other poor girl and then switched out her face for Beverly’s?”
“Actually, I bet the whole thing was staged, including the gunshot. Most likely, she stole a fake hostage movie from one of those video sharing sites. She doctored the clip to make the hostage look like Beverly and then added a grainy texture to it. And that explains why she deleted the videos from my satphone … she didn’t want us looking at them too closely.”
Graham and I returned to the story, telling Beverly how we’d escaped from Saul and his friends. By the time we finished, his eyes were slits.
“Well, I’m hitting the sack.” He stretched his muscles. A yawn escaped his lips. “You two had better not keep me up.”
As he marched out of the room, Beverly set her clutch on the bed. Looking down, she studied the soiled, bloodied bedsheets. “Sorry about the mess. I was just so tired.” She made a face. “God, I feel gross.”
“I think we can fix that.” I grinned wickedly. “How does a shower sound?”
CHAPTER 34
Our naked flesh pressed together, bathed in cascading streams of hot water. My hands traced down her back and grabbed hold of her rear. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Our lips mashed together, firm and hard, as if we were at war with each other.
Steam was everywhere, coating the glass doors, the shower itself, and us. I could see her and nothing else, just the way I liked it.
The water swept away the blood, the dirt, the sweat. And soon it was just us, washing each other, touching each other. I shampooed her hair and washed it slowly, enjoying its silkiness. She soaped me up, lightly teasing the tips of her fingers against my chest and my legs. And then we embraced in the middle of the oversized shower, locking together in more ways than one as the giant perforated nozzle heated up our intertwined bodies. Our climax, a simultaneous event, caused our muscles to tense and our toes to curl. Animal screams erupted from our throats only to be swallowed down by hungry kisses.
Several minutes later, I sat on the shower floor, back against the cool wall and legs stretched over the drain. Beverly lay on her side, her face pressed against my chest, her toes wiggling against my feet.
Lifting her head, she peered into my eyes. God, those eyes. I could stare into them all day. “How come you never took me here?” she asked.
“Because I don’t come here.” I shrugged. “This is my first visit since Mom left.”
She lowered her face back to my chest. She was so close I could feel her heart beating. “It must’ve been hard living here after your dad died. What was his name again?”
“Drew. Drew Reed. I think it was short for Andrew, but I’m not sure.” I sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just thinking about Dad.”
“Oh?”
“Before he died, he started buying up old buildings in Manhattan. And then he just tore them all down in one fell swoop. There was no reason for it. It was like he decided to wage his own little war on the past. Of course, the local preservation societies went nuts. They brought in lawyers, the whole nine yards. But Dad’s lawyers were better.”
“Maybe he was planning on building something big, like a museum.”
“If the buildings were close together, I might agree with you. But they were spread all over Manhattan.” I exhaled. “The kids at school used to make fun of him. They’d say he was crazy, tearing down all those buildings. Of course, I defended him. But I got curious a few months ago and you know what I discovered? He didn’t have plans for those lots. He was just ripping down buildings for the hell of it.”
“Well, if we never got rid of the old, we’d never have anything new.”
“True. But most of those buildings stretched back to the 1800s. A few were even around during the 1700s. That’s an incredible amount of history and he destroyed it like it was nothing.”
We lay in silence for a few minutes. Then Beverly cleared her throat. “You mentioned your grandfather before. Something about how he’d deserted his family when your dad was a baby.”
“I know what you’re getting at. Maybe he went crazy, just like Dad did. Hell, maybe I’m the next Reed to take a trip on the insane train.”
“Actually, I was just thinking about how you see your dad as a villain and it makes me wonder if he saw his dad as a villain, too.”
“What’s your point?”
“Justin had secrets in his safe deposit box. Secrets that might even explain why he disappeared in the first place.”
I recalled the Capitalist Curtain papers I’d taken from the vault. At the moment, they were rolled up in my tuxedo jacket.
“And your dad never knew about them,” Beverly continued. “So, he never knew the full story behind his father. Isn’t it possible you’re no different? Isn’t it possible you don’t know the full story behind your dad either?”
CHAPTER 35
Why can’t I sleep?
I kicked the covers off and eased my left arm out from under Beverly’s warm, supple figure. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at the window. A few rays of early morning sunlight pushed through the dark curtains.
I sat up, feeling my joints ache in protest. My body felt like it had gone through an industrial car wash.
We were in one of the apartment’s many extra bedrooms. It was just down the hall from my old room and stocked with memories. An antique box of carpenter pencils. A solid chest of drawers predating today’s ready-to-assemble furniture by several decades. Framed black-and-white pictures of Manhattan, depicting elevated railways along with massive webs of cables hanging high above city streets.
I cringed as my bare feet pushed down on the hard wood floor. Grabbing the rolled-up Capitalist Curtain papers from my tuxedo jacket, I shuffled out of the room, wishing I had some coffee handy.
I walked to the staircase, scaled the steps to the fifth floor, and veered down a dark corridor. At the end, I opened a door and stepped into Dad’s old office.
I flipped the light switch and crossed the crisp carpet, ignoring the slight scent of disinfectant. As a little boy, I’d spent many hours in the office, playing quietly on the floor, waiting for Dad to finish work. I could still recall every inch of the space by heart, all the way down to the slightest stain.
As I neared his desk, I noticed more memories. That old tin can, full of pens and sharpened pencils. The banker’s lamp, complete with bright green lampshade. The misshapen clay sculpture of a dragon, a product of my third grade self.
I walked to Dad’s old chair. Leather crinkled loudly as I sat down. Swinging my feet onto the desk, I began to study the Capitalist Curtain papers. They were water-logged and torn in multiple places. Plus, the handwriting was just about the worst chicken scratch I’d ever seen.
I came across a small section about the specificatio
ns for a heavily-modified dump truck. Turning pages, I saw more things. A map of a mountain abutting a sizable clearing. A notation referring to the 23rd Headquarters Special Troops. A list of names and occupations, none of which rung a bell.
My head started to hurt from reading the terrible penmanship. So, I gave my eyes a good rub. When I reopened them, I noticed something odd. Bits of brass were embedded in the ceiling. I’d never noticed them before. But why? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I’d spent most of my time playing on the carpet. So, while I knew every inch of floor space, that knowledge didn’t extend to the ceiling.
I hopped onto the desk and took a closer look. The brass bits were hinges built into one side of a nearly invisible panel.
I worked my fingernails into a tiny crack and pulled at the panel’s edge. With loud squeaks, it lowered into my hands, freeing a retractable ladder. The ladder proceeded to unfold until its feet dented the carpet. And come to think of it, I remembered playing around two little dents in that exact same area back when I was a kid. I’d never thought twice about them. But now, they made a whole lot of sense.
A hidden attic? My pulse raced.
I gripped the ladder and shook it. It was rickety, but usable. So, I swung to the side. Planted my feet on a step.
And began to climb.
CHAPTER 36
I had no idea what to expect from the secret attic. It could’ve held suitcases full of diamonds for all I knew, although I figured old decorations was a more likely bet.
And so I climbed the ladder with all the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning only to have it slowly drain out of me as if I’d just opened up a bunch of presents consisting of underwear and socks.
The attic was small and devoid of its own light source. Fortunately, the lamps in Dad’s office provided plenty of illumination and so I was able to make out three metal filing cabinets, a couple of crushed boxes, and about a foot of dust. In other words, boring stuff. Completely, disappointingly boring.
