CHAPTER 7
MARK HIT THE BUTTON on the BMW’s key fob and opened the car door. He started to get inside but stopped when he saw a white envelope lying on the leather seat. He glanced around the parking lot. Someone had been inside his car. How did they get in? Who? Why?
He checked the lock and the window, looked at the outside of the door. No evidence of tampering. He walked around to the passenger door. No dents or scratches on that lock or doorframe.
After another scan of the cars in the police lot, he picked up the envelope and settled into the seat. The paper looked and felt expensive, probably linen. Frowning, he ran his fingers across the letters embossed in large print on the front. WJA. What does WJA stand for? Finally, he opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it.
NO ACCIDENT!
No accident? What was that supposed to mean? A sickening feeling washed over him. Was someone telling him the explosion was not an accident? That it was planned, an attack of some kind?
He crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket. He wondered if he should show it to the detective, but didn’t have the energy to go back in and talk. Whatever it meant, he didn’t have the energy to think about it now. All he wanted to do was crawl back in bed and dream about his family.
* * *
KIRK BIT INTO THE juicy cheeseburger, then cursed out of the side of his mouth when sauce dripped down the front of his blue T-shirt. “Aw, man… This is my favorite shirt!” Holding the burger in one hand and steering with his wrist, he swiped at the drip with a napkin. The car swerved. He grabbed the wheel with the napkin and returned the car to the correct lane.
He looked down. His cleaning job was only making the stain worse. It was hard to get a shirt to fit these days, with his abs turning into a one-pack. He had once been a gym rat, but then life, marriage, divorce... Now he couldn’t see his belt for the belly that hung over it.
The road turned to the right, just like in the pictures he’d printed from the e-mail Mooch sent him. He wanted to see the old mill for himself. He probably wouldn’t find anything more than dusty tire tracks, but it was all part of being thorough.
He could see the dilapidated building standing out against the horizon, a sleeping giant. It looked like the entire building had been constructed of plywood and old, tired planks. He slowed the car, popped the last fry into his mouth, and burped in satisfaction. Nothing like a burger to chase away hunger pains.
Parking his Charger in the front of the mill, he turned off the ignition and pulled out his .45 from its shoulder holster. Pulling the action back, he checked the chamber. It made a clicking sound as it snapped back into place. He holstered the weapon, checked the perimeter one last time, and got out of the car. He checked his watch. One o’clock. He had some time to check the place out.
He walked to the front of the rotted building. Chains and twisted boards crisscrossed the front doors . Most of the windows on the two upper floors were broken. A washed-out sign across the side of the building read: LAKELAND MILL.
He pushed through the weeds to the back of the property and found what he was searching for. Multiple, wide tire marks, which wound around to the back of the building. He followed the tracks to the corner, where he stopped, leaned against the wall and drew his weapon.
He listened for a moment, then slipped around the corner, stopped, and scanned the area—the doorways, the windows, the adjacent out-buildings, the trees behind the buildings. He’d been in too many situations to assume he was alone. He lowered his gun. The area was clear, with only a few tumbleweeds stacked against the side of the structure like bums in an alley.
Footprints were everywhere. Most of them, it appeared, belonged to Martinez, or a man with very wide feet. Then he saw what he was looking for—a second set of prints, smaller ones. The mystery woman.
He checked his surroundings, then re-holstered his gun and pulled a digital camera from his pocket. He snapped several shots of the footprints and of the tire tracks.
He saw where the second truck had parked behind the structure, just out of sight from the road. Squatting on one knee, he peered at the tracks, which looked weird, not like tread marks from a normal delivery truck. The rear tracks were about twice the size of the front ones. Probably some kind of armored truck… Like those banks use to transport money.
He straightened and started toward the silo tower ten yards behind the main building. The tower was about fifty feet tall with a cone-shaped top and a rusty ladder strapped to the side that ran all the way from the bottom to the top. Though it was probably empty, the silo still emanated sawdust and dirt, a smell strong enough to make his eyes water.
Then he saw the newly painted letters blazing in the sun high atop the tower: WJA. “What in the—?”
He pulled out his camera and took a picture, thinking someone had spent some time painting the giant lettering. It was not a hack job, like what he was used to seeing from the local taggers back in Detroit. This was very professional.
He dropped the camera back into his pocket and turned just in time to see a billy club crash down on his forehead. A flash of light filled his vision as he crumpled to the ground. He heard the thud of his head hitting the dirt as he grabbed for his gun. Before he could find the holster, another blow smashed the back of his skull.
* * *
MARK OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment feeling like he’d been cheated. His life had been turned upside-down—for what? The thoughts of K and Sam tortured him every moment of every day.
When he closed his eyes, he saw them. When he walked down the street, they were with him. When he drove his car, he heard Sam’s chatter in the back seat. Felt K’s hand in his. He could barely eat. Could barely think.
He ran his hand through his hair. He had to return to work. He’d call Hank tonight and tell him he was going to work tomorrow. That was the only way he would get his mind off his own personal hell.
On the kitchen counter, he saw the bottle of wine that had been in one of the gift baskets sent to his hospital room. He didn’t remember who sent it, but it was just what he needed at the moment.
He rummaged through the silverware drawer. After he found a corkscrew, he managed to pop the cork, despite his bandaged fingers, and pour himself a glass. He’d always thought people who drank to smother their pain were cowards. Now he wasn’t so sure. At least for today, he needed a break from the agony.
He held his glass to his nose and breathed in deep, inhaling the rich scent of the red wine and the promise of relief. He sat on the couch, the bottle in one hand and the wine glass in the other.
But his back, still sore from the rollover, seized as he sat, sending daggers of pain up and down his body. He dropped the glass. It hit the floor, and a red stain instantly spread across the area rug. He groaned, set the bottle down, and painfully maneuvered off the couch.
After he cleaned the rug and hung it outside on the balcony to dry, he returned to the couch. This time, he lowered himself slowly, careful not to send his back into orbit again.
He reached for the now empty wine glass he’d placed beside the sofa, looked at it, then back at the bottle on the coffee table. With a sigh, he set the glass on the end table. He could not numb the pain and the grief. He wanted to live, to feel. Bad feelings were just as much a part of life as good ones. This was how he would remember how much he loved K and Sam. The pain was his love for them, which would never die.
* * *
A THROB OF PAIN rushed through Kirk’s head, waking him from his forced slumber, his skull pulsing with each heartbeat. He opened his eyes but couldn’t see anything. He waved his hand madly in front his eyes.
Nothing.
Gingerly, painfully, he probed the back of his skull with his fingers.. His hair felt wet and tacky. Blood. He grunted, surprised he was happy to be alive. He rolled onto his back and felt for his gun. As he suspected, it was gone.
He sat up and pushed himself to his knees, his head throbbing. The smooth, cold floor felt like it was made of metal.. Taking baby steps, he shuffled his way around his new home trying to imagine what it looked like, but he didn’t have much of an imagination. Hands in front of his face, he waved them back and forth, searching for a wall or---. He wouldn’t go there. Whatever he found, he didn’t want to find it with his forehead. He started to take another step, then stopped, his heart in his throat. His right hand felt something… Not something. Nothing. Nothing but air up above him, in front of him, behind him, to the left or to the right.
Not good.
He lowered himself to his belly. Hugging the floor, he rubbed the floor with his fingertips in ever-expanding swaths. Finally, he was able to trace the edge.
The floor was two-inches thick and rounded, as if he was lying on a large Frisbee. He crawled in a circle to define his prison, determined to find the wall the cliff was attached to. That would be the safest place to be, he reasoned, so he wouldn’t roll off in his sleep and fall into nothingness.
“No wall?” he muttered. “Something has to be holding this thing.” He felt sweat drenching his armpits and could smell fear seeping from his pores.
He felt along the edge once again, hoping against hope he was wrong. But he found no wall, no supports, no cables to suspend it. Nothing but this crazy, floating, metal Frisbee and, as far as he knew, a deep, dark hole above and below him. He moved to the center of the disc to contemplate this new information.
Click, click, pop, pop.
Blinding, white light made him twitch and snap his eyes shut. He tried to open them, but after total darkness, he blinked uncontrollably.. He squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to make out what was in front of him.
The room was about fifty feet in diameter, with a dome ceiling and warehouse lights hanging high above him, like huge, monstrous eyes staring at him. He was lying on a round chunk of metal fifteen feet in diameter. He wasn’t in the middle, like he’d thought. He pulled himself to the center, and as he did so, the disc swayed.
He flattened himself to the floor, breathing hard and hugging it for all he was worth. At any moment, the disc could tip and pitch him over the side.
Way below him—the room had to be at least a hundred feet to the bottom—he could see a single door. He searched the perimeter. As far as he could tell, that door was the only way in and out of the huge, round room. The walls were smooth, their silver sheen rippling as they bounced the light back and forth. He felt like he was inside a gigantic oven.
Straight ahead, at eye level, a mirrored window broke the monotony of the glossy walls. He recognized it for what it was. A two-way. Just like the ones at the station back home. It was better to be on the other side of the glass.
“Hello, Mr. Weston.” A deep voice thundered and circled the round room.
Kirk flinched. His heart pounded in his ears. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
His voice echoed off the walls, making his headache even worse. “Please do not talk, Mr. Weston. All you need to know is that you are a prisoner here. As you can see, if you try to escape, you will die in the attempt.
“Look around, Mr. Weston. You are in what we call the MAG Chamber, a room built with magnets and specially engineered metals. The walls, the floor you are sitting on, even the lights, are set to an exact range and magnetic strength. A magnetic field supports you, a field we can control with ease.”
He rose to his knees. “What kind of people are you? Do you—”
The floor dropped from beneath him so quickly that he left the disc and was airborne. As suddenly as it started, the floor stopped. He crashed into the disc with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.
The floor began to rise. “Mr. Weston, we asked you not to talk. If we want your comment on something, we will ask.”
He rolled onto his back and made a thumbs-up motion.
“The rules are as follows. No talking unless asked a direct question. Do not try to escape. You will be killed on-sight if you try. Last but not least, welcome to the WJA.”
The sound system squealed and clicked off. The room was as silent as before. Then, just as fast, the lights shut off with the same sound of breakers popping.
Kirk breathed in a sigh of relief. His pounding head couldn’t take any more loud noises or bright lights. He rolled onto his side. Now what?
* * *
“HELLO HANK.” MARK TURNED up the volume on his cell phone. “I just wanted to let you know I’m coming into work tomorrow.” He knew he would get resistance from his boss, but he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“Mark, come on. You’ve only been off for like, what, a day?”
“I really need this right now, Hank. I have to get my mind off everything. Just give me some small project to work on, and you won’t even know I’m there. I need to keep busy.”
Hank sighed. “Fine, but you’re going to take some time off later in the year…when you can enjoy it. Are you sure you’re ready to come back this soon?”
“I can’t just sit around here…” The silence was sharp. He knew it made Hank feel uncomfortable.
Hank heaved a sigh. “All right, all right. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” He hung up the phone, then stared out the window. He had to get back into a routine. Memories of K and Sam were consuming him. He wanted to remember them, and he felt somewhat like a selfish pig not wanting to think about them. But he couldn’t do it right now. Not now.
He sat in front of the TV and flipped through the channels, going from the extreme to the ridiculous. He could find a hobby, something new to learn to keep himself busy. Golf? Fishing? Maybe he would join a gym and try for the six-pack he always wanted but had never found the drive within himself to go all the way.
He stopped flipping when he saw the program on the Discovery Channel. They were running a series called The History of Weapons. He watched for a few minutes and was surprised how interesting it was and how many different guns there were: semi-auto, full auto, pistols, machine guns. They even showed one that could shoot around corners. He remembered that Bert down at the office had invited him to go shoot with him at the firing range a few times. He’d always had other things in the way. Now, it sounded like fun. This might be the thing to take the edge off. He might even like it.
He’d used a thirty-thirty hunting rifle when he hunted with his dad back home. It was one of his few memories from his childhood. For some reason, he only remembered bits and pieces. Deep down, it bothered him. He should be able to remember. He’d ask Bert if he could go with him. It would be good to have proper instruction on how to shoot a handgun, maybe even get good enough to enter a competition someday.
“Whoa there, bud. Let’s just take this one step at a time.” He was the type who threw himself into projects with all of his soul and energy. It might be too early to dive in headfirst.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, MARK walked into his office avoiding as many coworkers as possible. He didn’t want people to feel sorry for him or look at him like he was made of glass. He set his briefcase on his neatly organized desk and sat carefully in his chair. The wrap around his ribcage helped to ease the pain, but he was still sore. Sitting was the hardest thing to do with broken ribs. Then there were his hands. He hoped he could move his fingers enough to use his computer.
Hank walked in. “Hey, Mark!”
“Hi, Hank.” He raised his hands. “I’ll take it slow, I promise. No need to baby me.” Hank had a heart the size of Texas, but he didn’t want to take advantage of it.
Hank frowned. “You sure you’re up to this? You broke a few ribs, you know.” He emphasized the work broke. He glanced at Mark’s bandaged hands.
Mark rolled his eyes. “I’ll be okay; I just move slower than usual, so no making Bert run back and forth to the copier for me.”
“Fair enough. I asked Maria to give you a hand for a few weeks, just to get you coffee and run errands for you.” Maria was the receptionist with shimmering brown-gold eyes who made sure Mark never forgot meetings or birthdays.
Hank wasn’t asking. That meant he couldn’t argue the point. Not that he would have anyway. Maria was a good friend. It would be nice to have her around.
“Thanks, I’ll appreciate her help.”
Hank looked at his watch, mumbled something about being late for a meeting and hurried out of the office.
Mark clicked on his computer and was shuffling through papers in his briefcase when he saw Maria coming toward his office, a skip in her step. She was a slender woman with brown hair that was always up in weird-looking buns or clips. If he had to guess, he would say she was in her mid-twenties. She was always on the verge of laughing or giggling. That was one of the reasons he got along with her so well. She always enjoyed a good joke or prank.
When she walked in, he said, “Congrats, Maria, on moving to an admin position. Sorry it had to be me you got stuck with.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She walked around his desk to give him a hug, then stepped back. “How are you doing?”
He closed his eyes for a moment then looked at her.
“As good as can be expected, I s’pose. I just wish everyone would be themselves. No need to be so glum on account of me.”
She sat in one of the low-backed chairs across from his desk. “We all care about you. It‘s hard to know what to say or how to act. You know what I mean? We want to help you through this hard time, and well… We’re worried about you. We hurt for you.”
He smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was the best he could do.
“Just know if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.” She stood to leave.
“Yeah, I guess it’ll take some time… for everyone. Thanks, Maria.” He was relieved when she started for the door. Talking about what happened to his family was about to overwhelm him. He needed to change the subject.
“Hey, do you want a coffee, or something to eat?” she asked. “I’m heading up to the cafeteria.”
He nodded. “I could use an Almond Joy mocha and a bagel with cream cheese. Didn’t have any breakfast. Thanks.” He grinned as she left his office. This assistant thing was going to be nice. Maybe he could find a way to keep her on permanently.