Power Trip

by Dom Testa

  So that’s what I do on my end to backup my files.

  Oh, and one last thing. You might wonder what happens to the soul/self/whatever of the felon who offers up his body. In a nod toward something at least resembling solid ethics, that personality is uploaded into its own digital storage and then . . . stored. Just stored somewhere. I don’t know if it’s in the big warehouse of crates with the Lost Ark, but somewhere.

  That appeases, I guess, anyone who worries that we’re killing the prisoners. Technically we’re not. We’re putting them on ice, for who knows how long. Then the brain is ‘washed,’ in a sense, and I move in.

  So yeah, somewhere the guy who requested the Libery ink job is floating, unconscious, in a hard drive. The only thing to indicate he ever existed is a tiny red light that flashes about once every five seconds on the front of a black box. Creepy.

  I packed everything except the clothes I’d wear for the long drive the next day and settled in for the evening in my ostentatious suite. I caught a few minutes of a meaningless college football game, then channel surfed to a cooking show — the homemade guac looked good — then gave up on TV. It was time to upload.

  I opened the special app on my tablet, went through the complicated login, connected my fake deodorant and shaving cream, and then lay back on my ridiculously large bed. It would be a few hours before I could drift off to sleep. I used the time to catch up on my trash magazines.

  Hey, I love the rags, man. Keeping up with the royal family is my guilty pleasure, and I gotta know what that perky princess is up to these days.

  Chapter Seven

  My dad never trusted flying, so as a kid every vacation was a road trip. At least he made it fun for us. We’d load up with junk food, Mom made killer sandwiches, and the back seat was a paradise of coloring books, Play-doh, Legos, and other childhood distractions for my sister and me.

  Through these adventures we saw 32 states and most of the classic roadside attractions before cancer, a murder, and — in a horrible twist of fate — a plane crash ended not only the trips but the family.

  I’m the only one left and I can’t seem to get the road bug out of my system, regardless of what body that system’s driving in. And although my dad’s old Chevy was good at the time, a road trip is infinitely better in a $100,000 car. Trust me.

  I had my favorite playlist on shuffle and a can of sour cream and onion Pringles in the cup holder. The convict’s body damned well better accept those. Cruise control was set on 73 as I skimmed through southern Utah and northern Arizona, keeping my eyes open for a truck stop that might sell Goodart’s Peanut Patties. Damn, they’re awful and sensational at the same time. An ungodly amount of sugar, but I never worry about cavities. I never keep a set of teeth long enough.

  In case you haven’t caught on yet, I don’t give two shits about my diet. Consider it one of the perks of my peculiar circumstances. Anyone else who’s married to a chef probably fights an ongoing weight problem. I can eat anything Christina experiments with, and fast food doesn’t scare me one bit. Disposable bodies rock.

  Poole sent me a message as I crossed into Arizona saying that our pal Richter was booked on a flight to Telluride, probably arriving about the same time I would. She’d added a sweet Be careful at the end.

  If the twins had summoned their squatty henchman it meant they hadn’t completely bought in to my Conrad Dean act yet. Probably just hedging their bets. But it also signaled they were nervous enough to cover their asses, which meant they were guarding something.

  I’d sent a note to Quanta asking if there was any update on the red-headed knave from my Utah experience. She’d replied with two messages: (1) That’s not your concern anymore, and (2) Keep your mind on your current assignment.

  Easy for her to say. She didn’t hold grudges, but I sure did. In fact I might hold the world record for carrying a grudge because mine transcended death. It traveled with me from one life to another. If Red was Beadle I wasn’t letting it go. I had multiple scores to settle with that son of a bitch and eventually I’d have the pleasure of watching the light go out of his eyes. It didn’t matter if he was a ginger, a brunette, or chrome-domed at the time. Quanta could only deflect my attention so much.

  So I didn’t respond to her curt reply and instead tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to that one song by that cool band. You know the one.

  I made good time and pulled into Telluride around three o’clock. The town sits nestled in a box canyon and began as a silver and gold mining camp in the late 1800s. The only other thing I remembered about it, other than its ritzy ski area, is that it was where Butch Cassidy pulled off his first real crime, robbing a bank there in 1889. I don’t think that was in the movie.

  I stopped at a convenience store and used their facilities to change out of my driving gear into something a little more respectable for meeting the Ormonds. The convenience store had generic peanut patties, but not Goodart’s.

  Plugging in the address LeMan had sent me, I navigated into what you’d call the exclusive part of the ski village. A guard at the community gate checked my ID and compared it to his list kept on a tablet. Then he waved me through and pointed toward a road meandering up the hill.

  My fancy car automatically downshifted as I made the ascent, a climb that would’ve been challenging without the all-wheel-drive. The road had been plowed, but it was still slippery. From the substantial white drifts along the sides I imagined that skiers were already enjoying the season. Near the top of the hill I rounded a turn and found myself facing another gate. I rolled down my window and punched the intercom. In a few seconds there was a soft buzz and the gate swung open. I drove through.

  Massive pine trees lined the twisting drive. Rounding a curve I approached the chalet, a monstrous stone monument to tech millions. Castle-like turrets bookended the edifice. Meticulous landscaping that must’ve taken six figures a year for upkeep was impressive, even dusted with snow.

  I’d seen gaudy homes before and usually scoffed at the pomposity, but this one awed me.

  A porte cochere, like you’d find at a resort hotel, protected the large front door from the elements. As I stepped out of the car a servant appeared and offered to grab my bag. I followed him inside and found one of my hosts gliding down an impressive staircase, a large smile on his face.

  “Mr. Dean,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Lucas Ormond. We are so glad you could come.”

  My first impression was exactly what I’d expected. A young-looking 33, long hair framing a thin face, and an angular body that moved like a marionette in a herky-jerky manner. His smile, whether genuine or manufactured, took up his entire face. I instantly got the impression he forced himself to wear that smile almost all the time.

  I grasped the hand, which was damp and limp, exactly the worst combination ever for a handshake. “Please, Conrad is fine. And thank you, it’s nice of you to invite me.”

  Let the games begin.

  He gestured to what was surely the showpiece of the house, and together we walked into a great room off the kitchen featuring sky-high windows overlooking the rugged San Juan mountains. Against the fading late-afternoon light I saw a gondola reaching up the side of a ski run that just a few hours earlier would’ve been bustling with colorfully-clad vacationers overpaying for snow adventures and chili served in bread bowls.

  Pointing to a supersized leather couch facing the view, he took the matching chair to one side. Within moments the same servant entered with a tray.

  “I hope you like iced tea,” Lucas said. “It’s a peach tea. I don’t care for the taste of alcohol, but we can certainly make arrangements if you’d like an adult beverage.”

  “No, this is fine,” I lied, accepting the glass and pretending to savor the taste.

  His smile was non-stop. “Gillian is tied up right now, but she looks forward to meeting you at dinner. How was your drive? I don’t know how you do that. I could never drive for that long? What is it, like 14 or 15 hours?”

 
; “Oh, no, about nine. I enjoy long drives. They give me time to relax and think.”

  He spent the next three minutes regaling me with the ways he loved to relax, smiling the whole time. It was clear that Lucas Ormond’s technique was to overwhelm his guests with talk and cheerfulness. I don’t know if it was his mission to keep me from saying much, perhaps some method to his vocal barrage, but for the time being I saw no reason not to play along. I nodded where I needed to. I even threw in an occasional exclamation of surprise, or a well-placed No kidding. Eventually I decided that it was indeed a ploy.

  Young Lucas dominated the conversation, so much, in fact, I could never swing the subject around to the investment. It dawned on me that to do so would open him up to questions I might have, and he had no intention of answering anything before his sister was on hand. So in the meantime he’d bluster on and on, maintaining control of the conversation.

  If I’d really been Conrad Dean of Locker-Mann, and if I’d really wanted to plug a gazillion dollars into his company in the hopes of quadrupling my money, I would’ve worked to steer things that direction. At least try to get a feel for the partnership.

  But as a well-paid agent for Q2, here on a poke-around mission, I was happy to let the man talk. I wanted to learn just what kind of person I was dealing with. The problem was that I wanted to slap that smarmy smile off his face.

  And maybe it was my irritation with that incessant grin that caused me to wait for a gap in his word vomit and to shake him up just a bit.

  “So your father started LoGo about 30 years ago. By the way, I’m sorry about his passing. I’m sure that’s been very difficult for you and your sister.”

  Even with that, however, the smile didn’t completely disappear. The brightness factor maybe took a hit, dimming from a solar flare to a full moon, but he was good. He managed to hold on to the basic framework of a smile.

  “Yes,” he said, “my father was way ahead of his time when it came to alternative energy.” By the end of the sentence he’d begun to brighten again. “How long have you been with Locker-Mann?” And, just like that, he’d once again diverted the conversation.

  “More than ten years.”

  “And you’ve no doubt seen a lot of changes.”

  “Oh, Lucas, I doubt anyone has seen as much change as I have over the last few years. One new face after another.” I stood up and stretched. “Do you mind if we walk around a bit? I’ve been sitting in that car all day.”

  He jumped to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Of course, you’ve been driving for hours. I can show you around the place, if you like. That way you can stretch your legs and we can get to know each other.”

  Something about Lucas Ormond was off. I’d met lots of people who were stunted in their social skills, others who didn’t hide the fact they just didn’t like people, period. I mean, truth be told, I wasn’t the best at small talk. But the Lo of LoGo was a different bird. It’s as if he really wanted to be good at conversation but was missing a piece or two that made it connect. Somehow he’d rationalized that the way to overcome this flaw was to just keep spewing words, hoping something would be a hit.

  Now, with my head spinning, I considered the sheer tonnage of syllables I’d been force-fed since walking in the door and extrapolated that over two days. And if the Go of LoGo turned out to be equally gabby, I feared the insides of my head might turn to complete mush and my skull would cave in on itself like a sad souffle.

  Listen, I’d been shot, stabbed, beaten with a metal rod, and one time even attacked with a flamethrower. A flamethrower, for Christ’s sake. If Lucas Ormond turned out to be a supervillain, he’d be the first to murder me with vocabulary.

  They paid me to stop heinous, large crimes from slaughtering large numbers of Americans; they didn’t pay me to be patient. I took him up on the offer of a tour, knowing that would only precipitate more words. At least I wouldn’t be held hostage on a couch.

  The basic tour was impressive, that’s for sure. The home was a custom built playland, covering at least 7,000 square feet — and in Telluride that’s a minimum of 8 figures. The dining room table sat more than 20 people around its octagonal design. The game room in the basement had billiards, an arcade, a poker table, a bar, and a home theater featuring leather recliners that could accommodate 14.

  I lost track of the number of bathrooms, and that was even before we made it to the personal quarters on the second floor. As far as I could tell, on that level there were at least three rooms that acted as master bedrooms, each a separate suite any Hollywood star would drool over. I thought one of them had another bedroom attached until I realized it was a closet.

  My own room for the night was only slightly less vulgar. My bag had been deposited next to the bed, and a fruit, meat, and cheese tray was laid out on a small table near a window opening onto a small balcony. My suite in Vegas had been larger, but nowhere near as plush.

  Damn, there was real money in wind and sunshine.

  Of course, during the tour I played it cool, the investment expert who walked halls like this every day. Inside I was saying holy shit.

  I was looking for something without knowing what it was, something that might at least give me some reason to think the LoGo kids were up to something. During our stroll on the second floor, just before arriving at my room, something stood out.

  It was an open door revealing another set of stairs. When I started to peek inside to see what might be at the top, my host took hold of my arm.

  “Oh, you don’t want to see that,” he said. “It’s just storage.” It was an awkward change from the manner he’d exhibited so far. Sure, it might’ve very well been the typical household’s junk room. But Lucas’s firm grip on my upper arm seemed an overreaction to my curiosity. I laughed and told him I totally understood, ha ha, we all have rooms we don’t like guests to see, ha ha, and all that.

  I would see that damned room before I left, however. That was now a priority.

  We wound up back in the room off the kitchen where I let Lucas talk some more about who knows what. A few minutes later he either ran out of words or had legitimate business needing his attention. With a reminder that dinner would be promptly at seven, he guided me back to the large staircase before disappearing into an office. I took the stairs casually and walked down the plush hallway toward my room.

  The door to that mystery staircase was now closed. And locked.

  Chapter Eight

  At 6:15 I showered, wondering which of the three shower heads I should stand beneath. Then there were, of course, three additional nozzles shooting water out from the side. I figured the person who came up with this frenzied approach to personal hygiene must’ve been one filthy cat.

  I dressed and considered calling Christina before dinner, but if these people were what we thought they were the room would be bugged.

  At 6:55 I walked down the stairs where I was again met by Lucas Ormond. He wore jeans, a collared shirt, and a sport coat, so I felt only slightly underdressed in my jeans and sweater. We made small talk again — correction, he made small talk and I pretended to be riveted. I began to wonder if his sister really existed.

  She did. She glided down the curving stairway like a movie star at exactly 7:02. And she was quite a sight.

  Almost as tall as her brother, Gillian Ormond carried herself in a completely different manner. Her long brownish hair was perfectly straight, eyes a turf green, and her makeup applied only to the point of perfection and not a smidge more.

  The eyes captured all of me in about two seconds, two glances up and down as if sizing up an opponent in the ring. Ostensibly I was here to discuss a significant investment in her company, but the way Gillian surveyed me in that first look I felt . . . appraised.

  When you do what I do for a living, you learn the tells of not only opponents but prospective opponents. This woman hadn’t spoken a word to me and I already knew — flat-out knew — that she wanted nothing to do with me or my $800 million. Now, wh
ether or not her company leapt at the opportunity was a different matter. Personally she had no interest.

  And I found that quite interesting.

  “Mr. Dean,” said Lucas, “this is my sister and partner in LoGo, Gillian Ormond. Gillian, this is Conrad Dean.”

  I gave her an all-business smile, which seemed right at the moment, and extended my hand. She did the classic move of actually looking at the hand, just hanging there in space, for a full second before taking it in her own. Smooth. Shitty, but smooth. I wanted to know if this was how she acted around all new people she met, or if she had some particularly bad feeling about me and my motives.

  She did utter the required, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dean.” But it didn’t fool me, her brother, or even the ficus tree next to us. I didn’t bother to insist on “just Conrad, please.” Instead I inclined my head in the way I’d seen in movies, and the three of us moved into the dining room.

  It was funny to me, an elaborate dinner being served to three people at a table crafted for two dozen. But with the natural angles of the octagon we were able to arrange things so that we sat boy-girl-boy and managed decent eye contact. A servant poured water for each of us and this time I wasn’t even asked about alcohol. It’s not like I have a problem or anything, but sitting with these two characters would make a nun long for a good shot of rye.

  True to form, Lucas blabbered on and I noted that Gillian rarely spoke. Not because of me, I don’t think; in their division of labor he talked, she absorbed. She wasn’t shy about eye contact, but again it was all in the name of evaluation. Once we got past the salad and awaited the chicken piccata the conversation finally turned to business. It was Gillian who got down to it.