The Seddon Corporation took up half a city block, an imposing tower of steel and concrete stretching up from the surrounding buildings, an accusing finger pointed at the heavens. A soft glow lit up the ground floor where two night security guards patrolled, but otherwise the building was in darkness.
Apart from a single light, right at the top.
Inside his luxurious office, Griff McKenzie had just finished briefing his two right-hand men, Jesse and Moses. Jesse was thin, with a face as blank as a bank teller, and Moses looked like a Victorian gravedigger, with bristly ginger hair growing out of his ears, and fists like Christmas hams. Moses still looked a little confused by all the instructions he’d just been given, but Griff knew that Jesse would set him straight. Jess was good like that.
Griff was pouring bourbon into a crystal glass when there was a tap at the door. It was his nephew, Peter Proctor. Irritably, he waved Peter in as Moses and Jesse left.
Peter went straight to the window and peered out at the city lights far below, his chubby round face reflected in the pane.
‘Man, you’ll be in trouble if there’s an earthquake,’ he remarked. ‘This place is gonna go down like Jenga. Lucky you’ll be on top, though.’ He turned to face Griff and gazed thirstily at the decanter.
Griff stoppered it. ‘Your mother says you’re between jobs at the moment.’ That wasn’t exactly what his sister had said. There had been a lot more swearing. Having her twenty-one-year-old, fairly useless son still living at home wasn’t just cramping her style, it had completely crushed it. ‘She’s asked me to help you.’
‘Oh, that’s the thing, see,’ said Peter. ‘I was talking to this guy who runs this club down on Courtenay, and he’s looking for bar staff and–’
Griff picked up a remote and turned on the TV, effectively shutting Peter up as the urgent drumbeats of the news theme filled the room.
Scowling, Peter dropped onto the plush leather couch.
A handsome young man, soberly dressed in charcoal grey, stood at a lectern crowded with microphones. The silver and green SC logo was displayed prominently on a drop-down panel behind him.
A voiceover said, ‘Seddon Corporation held another press conference this evening, to announce the latest developments in their search for the missing Kōtuku High School students.’
The screen flashed to a picture of the packed room. All journalists, Griff was pleased to note. No family members had managed to sneak their way in this time. There was nothing to distract from the message Seddon was delivering.
The camera zoomed in to the young man at the lectern. His name was captioned at the bottom of the TV screen: Nathan Hunter, Exploration Division. After the last debacle, Kathy Burgess, the real head of the department, had been banned from giving any kind of statement to the press ever again. Griff had to thank her for alluding to the ‘C’ word, though. Her mention of cancerous radiation waves had ensured all his personnel kept their protective uniforms on, no matter what.
Nathan Hunter knew nothing about exploration. He didn’t need to. He was an extremely good-looking PR ring-in, who, with his background in stage acting, had a reassuring manner that inspired trust. He faced the cameras now with no sign of discomfort.
‘The news of the missing Kōtuku High School students has affected everyone in New Zealand, and at Seddon Corporation too, with some of our own employees’ children among the missing.’
The logo on the drop-down panel vanished, to be replaced by a picture of a cheeky, grinning Joshua Worthington, son of the high-flying Seddon executive Kane Worthington. It was followed by a not-so-flattering picture of Awhina Thomas, with black winged eyeliner and a Pucci-style headband in her hair. Her mother was an accountant somewhere deep in the Seddon Corp labyrinth. She wasn’t in the same league as Worthington, but it wouldn’t have been good PR to leave her out.
‘We want to reassure whānau and all of New Zealand that Seddon is leading the search in a competent, efficient manner. We’re working with government agencies, as well as donating equipment, personnel and, of course, contributing significant amounts of funding that would otherwise be unavailable. You can trust that we are doing all we can during this difficult time.’
Griff swirled the remaining liquid in his glass. It didn’t matter how much they tried to reassure everyone, the families especially were getting impatient and were still asking awkward questions. Why couldn’t they find them? Why couldn’t they go and help? It was Day Four. Surely they should have found something by now? Even if it was just a broken bus wing mirror, at least it would be something.
The picture of Nathan Hunter squashed down into a little spinning cube and whizzed off the screen to be replaced by the porcelain face of the female news anchor, her voice throbbing with a concern that her botoxed features were unable to match.
‘Seddon Corporation says that the electromagnetic fields, combined with the rough terrain and unstable ground, are hampering rescue efforts as well as interfering with satellite technology usually employed in operations of this nature. We will keep you informed as this story develops.’
The news shifted onto a beehived celebrity falling out of a restaurant on spindly high heels, and Griff turned the TV off. Nathan hadn’t done a bad job. The boy had been careful not to say much, but his demeanour would have impressed the viewers. And, Griff noted drily, the fact that he was no one of note would make him a terrific fall guy if everything turned to custard.
He glanced over at Peter, who eyeballed him back in a most infuriating manner.
‘What have you heard about it?’
‘She’s had a few Hollywood blockbusters, and she put out a song around Christmas, but it wasn’t very good.’ Peter ducked as the TV remote just missed his face. ‘I was joking! Jeez.’
‘I don’t like you, Peter,’ Griff said, holding up a warning finger as Peter began to protest. ‘I don’t like your attitude. I don’t like the way you’ve wasted every opportunity we’ve ever given you. And I especially don’t like your hair.’
Peter raised a hand to his spiky black mop and quickly lowered it again.
‘But even if you do have your father’s name, you’re still a Seddon. And being a Seddon means that at some stage you’re going to have to assume responsibility, God help us. That’s why you’re going down to the basement. You’re going to report to Moses and Jesse and get on a truck to the airfield. And then you’ll be joining our security operations in Zone 12.’
Peter gave a strangled laugh. ‘Uncle. I can’t go anywhere. I told you, there’s this guy who owns a club. He’s expecting me now, actually.’
‘You see, this is what I mean,’ Griff said, with as much patience as he could muster, although it was everything he could do not to pick up the kid and heave him out the window.
‘Huh?’
‘Instead of dodging responsibility, you should be stepping up. Asking questions like, “What security operations?” Or, “What’s Zone 12?”’
Peter glowered at Griff. Griff glowered back. Peter dropped his gaze. Griff continued.
‘Zone 12 is a tiny sector of the larger western area. It borders the government land where those kids were camping. Zone 12 has been earmarked for mining. We’re talking millions upon millions of dollars.’
At the mention of money, Peter raised his head, eyes alight, and Griff inwardly smiled. The kid was a Seddon, all right.
‘Hence the problem. We can’t have just anyone walking in on our exploration activity, d’you understand? It’s dangerous. Highly volatile materials and suchlike. We don’t want disoriented kids wandering around. We can’t have grieving family members and enthusiastic searchers poking into things. And we don’t want anyone spying on our commercial interests.’
‘Spies?’
‘Business competitors. Foreign investors. The government.’
Realisation illuminated Peter’s face. ‘Oh. So that’s why you guys have taken over. I didn’t think it was because you were being nice about it.’
‘No. Nice is not what we’re about.’
Griff got to his feet and stared pointedly at Peter until he did the same. Together, they walked to the office door.
‘The situation in Zone 12 has … escalated. I need people on the ground I can trust. That’s why I want you on my security team. You’ll be helping to keep Zone 12 safe. I’ll be expecting regular reports, and I want to know everything. Every. Little. Thing.’
‘So, you trust me, but you don’t like me.’ Peter gave a half smile. ‘I s’pose I can work with that.’
It gave Griff great pleasure to push Peter through the door and close it firmly in his face.
‘To be fair, Peter,’ he muttered as he poured himself another glass of bourbon, ‘I don’t particularly trust you either.’
He sat in the leather recliner and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, he began dreaming of the girl. It was the dream he’d been having for the past five nights and the reason why he was getting hardly any sleep.
He was terrified.
