Town at the Edge of Darkness (The Excoms Book 2)

by Brett Battles

  Footsteps outside. Distant, but growing louder.

  He tensed, and for the umpteenth time made sure the door’s lock had been reengaged. Not that it would delay the guards for more than a few seconds.

  The steps kept coming, which meant they were definitely in the tunnel. Hopefully they would walk right past the door and head to the other building.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Closer and closer and—

  The steps stopped right outside the door.

  Ricky sprinted across the room. Whatever Ananke’s plan had been, they were down to one option now: hide behind the cart.

  As he neared it, he could hear the muted jangle of keys beyond the door behind him. He raced through the remaining distance and slid around the cart to join Ananke and Liesel.

  Except the only one there was Liesel, standing, much to his surprise, in front of an open door.

  “You are supposed to be monitoring the door,” she said.

  “Don’t need to do that anymore. They’re coming in.”

  As Liesel’s eyes widened, Ricky picked up the faint sound of a key entering a lock.

  He pushed Liesel through the opening, whispering, “Go, go, go.”

  He entered right behind her and closed the door until only an inch-wide gap remained.

  For a few seconds, all was calm, and then a gentle whoosh of air pushed the door against him, signaling the outer entrance had been opened. He heard voices as the two guards entered. Nothing panicky, only the small talk of a couple of guys going through the same motions they did every day. They walked around the room for a few seconds, but never came as far back as the cart.

  When the door finally closed again, Ricky held his position, alert for sounds of anyone who might have stayed behind. After several seconds, he said, “I think they’re gone.”

  He turned but Liesel wasn’t there.

  Across the dark room, dim light seeped out of a doorway. He turned on his flashlight and walked over. Both Ananke and Liesel were in the room, down at the other end. Ananke’s light lit up what appeared to be several low tables pushed together.

  “In case anyone is wondering,” Ricky said as he entered, “the guards are gone.”

  “Okay,” Ananke said, not even looking at him.

  “Okay? Would you have preferred them to join us?”

  This time, she didn’t answer at all.

  He headed across the room to see what was more important than their freedom.

  What the other two were examining weren’t tables but wheeled platforms, the tops raised a few feet above the floor. They were rectangular, about five feet wide and ten long. The surface appeared to be some kind of polymer, with a deep groove running along each side about three inches from the edge.

  Ricky asked, “So…what are we all enthralled about? It’s a platform.”

  Ananke made a crude measurement of the width of the groove, using the barrel of her gun. “Follow me.”

  She led them to another room of the same size. Instead of platforms, this one held several stacks of clear, rectangular boxes. Huge ones.

  Ananke placed her gun barrel against the edge of the opened end of one of the boxes. “See that? Perfect fit.”

  Liesel caught on a second before Ricky did. “You think these go on top of the platforms.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why?” Ricky asked. “To create monster-sized, see-through butter trays?”

  “Cute. But no. But they would make convenient mobile holding cells.”

  Ricky blinked. He hadn’t seen that coming.

  “There would have to be a way to regulate air and temperature,” Liesel said.

  “There are hose ports under the platform, with hidden vents in the floor,” Ananke said.

  Ricky looked from one woman to the other. “Are you two crazy? Why would anyone use these as cells?”

  “You were the one who suggested they were moving people. Seems like an innovative way of putting several people right next to each other while keeping them separate, and still being able to see what each prisoner is up to.”

  “Someone could just push it off,” he suggested.

  “Not if they are drugged,” Liesel said.

  “They wouldn’t need to be drugged,” Ananke countered. “There’s a locking mechanism on the platforms, too.”

  Ricky stared at the boxes. “You’re serious.”

  “What I think is that these things were intended for some other use and adapted.”

  “Jesus,” Ricky said. “Then where are the people?”

  “The middle room seemed to be designed as a holding space, but it’s pretty dusty so I don’t think it’s been used for a while. My guess, they don’t store anyone here anymore.”

  “Hold on,” Ricky said. “I saw them unloading people just a few hours ago.”

  “You saw them unloading something. And then loading one guy into the pickup truck. But let’s assume it was people. Keeping them here, at an active factory? That seems pretty impractical. But not quite as impractical if you think of this place as a late-night transfer point.”

  “So you think the trucks drop them off here and someone else takes them to their next destination?”

  “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

  “Why wouldn’t the truck go straight to this other place?”

  “Could be any number of reasons.”

  “Maybe it is not practical,” Liesel suggested.

  “Right. Or maybe they want to keep the next destination a secret, and that would be a lot easier to do without a semi-truck showing up.”

  “So where is this other place?” Liesel asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Ricky asked.

  “I think it’s time for a more direct approach.”

  Surprise, surprise. Another quiet night in the bustling metropolis of Bradbury.

  About the only excitement Harris had encountered on her shift was the purchasing manager of one of the dot-coms drinking a little too much at the Cache Bar and making a nuisance of himself. Nothing a night sleeping in a holding cell wouldn’t cure.

  Dealing with him had knocked her off her normal schedule, though, and it wasn’t until around midnight before she made it to Tasha’s house. All the trip lines she’d set were still in place, and a quick look through the windows revealed no indication of anyone having been inside. She still wasn’t sure if she should take that as a good sign or not.

  She had spent the next several hours driving around town, “keeping the peace.”

  At a quarter to three, she turned onto Clearwater Drive and drove past the Collins Inn. Like she’d done every time her rounds took her by the hotel for the last two nights, she checked the parking lot for Shawn Ramey’s Mustang.

  Her foot eased up on the gas.

  The Mustang was gone.

  It had been there when she drove by about an hour and a half ago. Given the time of night, she’d assumed it would remain there.

  She turned into the parking lot, thinking maybe Ramey had moved it for some reason. But a search through both the front and back lots confirmed the car wasn’t there.

  Had Ramey left town? If she’d had an early morning flight out of Spokane, leaving in the wee hours would make sense. But from what Harris had learned by quietly asking around, Ramey was supposed to be in the area for several more days.

  Harris had that same feeling in the pit of her stomach she’d experienced the first night she saw Ramey driving around—that the woman was up to no good. Ramey was supposedly here to look into potential locations for her company, but Harris wasn’t buying it. There was something off about the woman. And in light of what had been going on with Tasha, Harris couldn’t help but wonder if Ramey was involved.

  She headed back to the main road, hoping to figure out where Ramey had gone. She glanced south and north. Both directions were devoid of traffic. She went south first, taking the occasional side street as she looked for the Mustang. When the
car failed to turn up, she tried her luck to the north, but more disappointment followed.

  Maybe she did leave town.

  Harris could check with the night clerk at the Collins Inn, but she thought it safer not to have anyone wonder why she was interested. In the morning, she could make an anonymous call from the pay phone at the Brazen Diner to find out. She drove to the end of the block and turned back toward the highway, to take up where she’d left off on her rounds.

  When she reached the highway intersection, she noticed headlights in the distance, coming from farther north. In her line of work, she was well versed in the differences between automotive light designs. While those heading her way were still distant, she could make out enough to eliminate several makes and models, but not Ford Mustangs.

  She backed away from the intersection until she was hidden by the building at the corner, then turned off her headlights and killed the engine. She grabbed her bag off the floor, fished around until she found her phone, and after accessing camera mode, pointed it at the intersection.

  It was a good forty-five seconds before she heard the motor. And another five when she realized there was not one but two vehicles.

  Though she couldn’t see anything yet, she began taking pictures, and didn’t stop until after Ramey’s Mustang and the nice-looking bike following it had gone by. Harris would have assumed they weren’t together except the bike was driving very close to the car, and if it had wanted to pass, there had been plenty of space to do it.

  She scrolled through the photos until she found the best one of the Mustang, and enlarged it to see inside the cab. As expected, Ramey sat behind the wheel, but Harris didn’t recognize the Asian woman sitting beside her, or the Caucasian man in the back.

  No sign of Ramey’s friend Caroline. Unless she was the one on the motorcycle. Harris brought up an image of the bike. No, the rider was too big to be Caroline, and, from the silhouette, likely male.

  She fired up the cruiser and turned onto the highway. She could see the other vehicles’ taillights nearing the turnoff to the Collins Inn, but only the motorcycle went toward the hotel.

  Leaving her lights off, Harris tried to cut the distance between her and the Mustang, but she was still three blocks away when the muscle car turned right and disappeared from sight. Harris raced to the intersection, but the other street was empty.

  “Dammit.”

  She resisted the urge to search for Ramey, and headed back to the Collins Inn.

  Upon reaching the hotel, she spotted the motorcycle parked in front of the east wing. She had no doubt now its driver knew Ramey.

  Harris found a concealed spot in a lot across the street and waited for the Mustang. When it showed up, Ramey was alone. Harris watched her park and walk into the hotel.

  Supposedly, Ramey’s only colleague in town was her friend, Caroline Cruz. But it seemed the woman knew at least three others.

  Yep. Definitely something fishy going on. Harris was determined to find out what it was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The guests ate breakfast at the banquet table in the lodge’s dining room, choosing from an assortment of eggs—scrambled, fried, and boiled—sausage, bacon, pancakes, french toast, fruit, yogurt, and cheese and meats spread down the center.

  Unlike when they’d arrived two days before, those present talked easily with one another, recounting events from the previous day, when they had all gone through training on the various weapons and methods they might use when the trials began.

  As they were finishing their meals, the kitchen door opened, and a smartly dressed man who looked to be in his early forties emerged. Fit, with a bright smile and perfectly styled short brown hair, he exuded a confidence the gathering’s attendees could relate to. He was one of them. A member of the elite. A mover and shaker. A man at the top of the power pyramid.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I am your host, Mr. Lean.”

  Greetings were returned in kind. Even the grumpy Mr. Huston, the slumlord, managed to sound almost kindly. They had all been wondering when they’d meet their host.

  “I understand training went very well yesterday,” Mr. Lean said. “I’m happy to hear that. I’m told you’re a particularly talented group.” He smiled. “I trust you all had a good night’s sleep, because today is not a day to be low on energy.”

  There were a few chuckles and knowing laughs. Today was the start of the trials.

  “Is everyone done with breakfast, or do you need a bit more time before we get started?”

  “Hell, no. Let’s do it,” Mr. Welles said.

  A few eyes turned to Mr. Wise, who had still been eating when Mr. Lean arrived. When he noticed the attention, he pushed his plate away and said, “All done.”

  Mr. Ford, the other slow eater, made a similar gesture.

  “Fantastic,” Mr. Lean said. He lifted a bell off the buffet table behind him and rang it.

  The kitchen door opened again, this time admitting three young men who began removing plates and glasses and serving dishes. Once the table had been cleared, table cloth included, the servants exited. Mr. Lean took his place at the head of the table but remained standing.

  “I know you are all anxious to get underway,” he said.

  That was an understatement. A sense of excitement and anticipation filled the room as if it were the very air they were breathing.

  “So, let’s begin. Today’s schedule will be broken up into two parts. This morning you will put to use your training from yesterday, and partake in a series of tests to gauge your individual skill levels. This will make it easier for us to provide help where needed, and to match you to the trophy best suited for you. After lunch, we will commence the first trial.”

  The men grinned like kids on Christmas morning.

  Mr. Huston raised a hand. “How will it work? I mean, do we all go at once, or is it one by one? Is there a time frame?”

  “An excellent question. The short answer is, each trial has a different method and time frame. But don’t you worry, we’ll go over the details of today’s event this afternoon before we start. Any other questions?”

  There were a few, but all were answered in the same quick, efficient manner.

  Mr. Lean rang the bell again, and Miss Riefenstahl entered. “Gentlemen, if you will please follow Miss Riefenstahl, she will take you to the testing facility now.”

  As the guests filed out of the room, the host smiled in a gracious, happy-you’re-here kind of way. But as soon as he was alone, the grin disappeared.

  What he and his two cousins had created here amounted to a sociologist’s dream on so many levels. Of course, Slater and Yates didn’t quite see it that way. They were small-time thinkers, who used their portion of the profits to fund the so-called “initiatives” they thought would bring about their dream of a pure world. It wasn’t that the host didn’t sympathize with their goal, but he knew the world was too far gone to ever see that dream realized. He humored them because he needed them to deal with the logistics of the trials.

  What he was interested in was power. Real power. That’s what the trials meant to him. Every gathering helped move him that much closer to his goal. Having the cream of the cream participate in the trials gave him a giant lever to manipulate them in the future, when the time came for him to make his move to the top.

  He walked down the hallway to the basement entrance, and placed his fingers against the screen next to the door. The pad scanned his prints and released the lock. At the bottom of the stairs was a second door. This time the associated pad required his other hand. Again, the lock disengaged and he passed inside.

  The lodge had been a resort back in the mid-twentieth century, catering to families looking to spend a week in the wilderness without having to rough it. It was based more or less on the resorts back east that had sprung up at roughly the same time.

  Its glory days lasted about fifteen years, but it had clung on for another decade, going through a ser
ies of ownership changes until it was shut down and boarded up in 1979. In the ensuing years, hunters and adventurers and more than a few transients had found their way inside and stayed for a night or a week or month.

  The host’s late father had come into possession of it in 1992. When he was killed for being the asshole he was, title for the property had passed down to the host. He’d been in college then, having moved away from Bradbury with his mother when he was only eight. After his own company was up and running, he decided it was time to go back. It took a bit of manipulating to convince all those with an interest in his company to see the merits of the move, and it had paid off. No one but his cousins, of course, knew about his ties to the town. That was something he kept secret even now.

  Upon his return to Bradbury, he spent a lot of cash refurbishing the lodge. He’d tried to rent it out to other companies for business retreats and the like. Unfortunately, it didn’t attract nearly the number of customers he needed. Add to that a few financial setbacks at his company, and he was looking at shutting everything down and selling off the pieces.

  It was around this time when his cousins had come to him with their idea for the trials, and their projections on the money they could make.

  They’d underestimated. Each attendee paid two hundred and fifty thousand US dollars to be here. That was one and a half million for the five-day affair, against an event cost of less than fifty thousand. Since he was the one providing the location and the initial seed money, he received fifty-five percent of the profit, while Yates and Slater split the remaining.

  To ensure they had enough product for events, extras were brought in, meaning once the monthly trial was complete, they could make even more cash selling the surplus to interested parties outside the US.

  All in all, the host had been clearing five million a year, and would be doubling that this year. The only reason he didn’t close his company was he needed a front.