A colorful assortment of people stared silently from white tables beneath umbrellas that had been visible above the patio wall. A stiff-necked servant in a black tuxedo and bow tie was moving among them with a tray, delivering drinks and removing empty glasses. A large, sparkling blue pool divided their gathering. They watched Markman quietly with smiles and nods of approval as an all-too-familiar monotone voice took command.
"Excellent, Mr. Julian, excellent. My congratulations to you."
Markman tried to brush himself off as he walked past the pool to Fishkin, dressed in the same crumpled suit he had on the day before. The offbeat host seemed to twitch with excitement, and as Markman approached, held out his hand in a stopping motion. "Mr. Julian, I must warn you, the battle is never really ended, is it?"
Fishkin motioned toward his other guests. Markman turned to face them and found they were holding paint guns of their own, all quite deliberately pointed his way.
There was a brief, pregnant pause before fire-cracker-like popping sounds broke out around the pool. A deluge of red paint splattered Markman from shoulders to waist. The tenacious silence abruptly returned. Then, just as suddenly, joyous laughter and hand-clapping took over. Markman stood staring down at himself, covered in red paint. He looked to Fishkin for an explanation.
"Welcome to the club, Mr. Julian. It's part of the initiation. No one has ever escaped. It's a tradition of sorts." Several guests left their seats to congratulate their newest member. Fishkin spoke as the procession moved past. "There are a few business matters which require my immediate attention, Mr. Julian. My servant will show you to a place where you can clean up. He'll provide you with a fresh shirt and will take yours for cleaning if you wish. Go with him, and I'll join you in a few minutes here on the deck."
Fishkin turned and hurried inside. He disappeared up a wide, winding marble staircase. A very somber, uniformed servant appeared and made an abbreviated bow. He carried Markman's utility bag, a white towel, and a clean, gray sweatshirt and abruptly motioned him to follow. At the end of a long, elegant hallway they stopped in front of a narrow door that opened to a small bath. It seemed more suited for the household staff than guests. A small open closet on the left bordered a standard-sized, rectangular tub. On the right, stood a plain white sink, and next to that, a white-paneled booth for the toilet. At the opposite end of the white-tiled room, Markman saw what he had been hoping for; a small, smoked-glass window, located above a wooden chair.
The servant handed over the bag, towel, and shirt, and bowed mechanically. Markman took the items and closed the mirrored door. He quickly peeled off the paint-stained turtleneck, and wrestled out of the camouflage pants, then wrapped them carefully into a bundle, pulled on the replacement shirt and rinsed his face and hands.
The window looked just big enough to squeeze through. He set the timer function on his wrist watch. They would certainly allow him ten minutes before checking in. The narrow window pushed upward easily. It opened to an outside tract that was adjacent to the patio but cornered enough to be out of sight of any of the guests. The same stretch of freshly cut grass led to trees and a garden area a short distance away. He twisted around to look upward. Overhead twin balconies, trimmed with black wrought iron guard rails jutted out from the second and third floor. Without hesitation, he stepped onto the rickety chair and worked his head and shoulders through the small opening, and adjusted himself into a sitting position on the sill, facing the house. Hurriedly, he worked up to a standing position on the window ledge. Hunched over, with one hand braced on the window top, he found he could almost reach the wide, cement base of the first balcony. With a calculated lunge, he let go and grabbed for the floor of the balcony, catching it cleanly and swinging free from the window.
The black iron guard rail proffered an easy climb. Stepping over it, he checked around and below to be sure he had not been seen. Beige, full-length curtains were drawn behind finely carved French doors. The doors were locked. A split where the curtains joined afforded a narrow look into a lavish, oversized bedroom. It seemed to be deserted.
The climb to the second balcony was easier. He studied the view below as he slid quietly over the rail. His progress had continued to go undetected. This time the delicate double doors were open. A tuft of pink curtain waved gently in the conditioned air escaping the well-lit room. A dull, recognizable voice droned from within. It was Fishkin. He was talking on the telephone.
"Yes, yes, I watched it from the ledge. ...What? Alright, the balcony. ...Yes, it was very impressive. ...Yes, all six. ...Yes, I agree. It is suspicious. Such a specimen, it's a shame. ...Very okay, then it's settled. It is not safe for you and I to meet again until preparations are complete. ...No, I disagree about the Hillock entrance. It is undetectable. ...Absolutely no. The Hillock entrance remains open; it is a commodity. If there is a problem with this Gomez individual, then employ whatever means are necessary. ...Oh that, yes, on the way back I had a minor accident leaving the bridge. ...No, not serious, a small amount of damage to the front end where it hit the sign. I couldn't stop in time. Yes, there is still a problem with the list, but I'll take care of it. It is my jurisdiction. ...Mr. Inkman, the problem with the list is my responsibility. Modifications can be made. I will see to that, but you are the Captain of the Soldiers. These other matters are your domain. The Hillock entrance is completely undetectable. Take care of the Gomez problem. ...Well, overall our plans are proceeding flatly. ...What? Alright, smoothly then. ...Yes, whatever you decide. ...Very good. I agree. We should not be seen together. When we meet again, it will be at the emergence of the Matriarch. The glorious dividing will begin. It will be a new day."
Markman heard the sound of the telephone receiver being rattled back into its cradle. He flattened against the wall by the door. There was the sound of heavy double doors closing.
Eleven minutes had passed. Hastily he lowered himself back down to the first balcony. Holding the wrought-iron guard rail, he hung from it and dropped to the lawn. He pulled himself back up into the open bath window, squirming through the tight space head first with his hands out in front of him on the inside wall. When he was halfway through, an insistent pounding began at the door.
"Mr. Julian? Is everything all right in there?"
Markman lowered himself face first to the floor, regained his feet and flushed the toilet.
"Just a minute please, I'll be right there."
With a quick straightening of his clothes, he gathered up the painted clothes left on the floor and answered the door. The prudish servant opened his mouth to speak. Markman cut him off. "Can you discard these for me? They were torn in the contest. I won't be needing them."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Fiskin has asked me to tell you he will not be able to join you as expected. He has been called away on important business. He hopes you enjoyed the outing and wishes you a safe journey."
With no further explanation or offerings, Markman was led unceremoniously to the grand front entrance, an extravagantly decorated area covered by expensive art and tall, burgundy-colored draperies bound at the center. An elderly maidservant looked up blankly at Markman as she continued to polish the base of a pewter-colored fountain in the room's center. At the main entrance, a butler in a black tuxedo stiffly opened one-half of the heavy double doors. Outside, a pathway of gray, diamond-shaped tile bordered by pointed evergreens led to the driveway, where a black limousine was already waiting. The starchy driver bowed facetiously and ushered Markman inside. Nothing was left to do but watch the Fishkin estate disappear behind, as the huge iron gates swung closed.
The ride back to the hotel was disconcerting. Something had gone wrong. Markman felt like an estranged suitor who had just been dumped by a girl he hadn't cared for. It left him off-balance and irate.
By the time he arrived at the hotel, it was late morning. The feelings of misgiving persisted. Inside the suite, a sullen, feminine figure, in a white pants suit was waiting on the sofa. It was Rogers.
"What the hell are you doing here? You
'll blow my cover."
"Too late, Scott. We've already blown it."
"What are you talking about? I just ran Fishkin's race, didn't I? We should be home free. You shouldn't be here. This room is probably bugged."
"Nope. We scrubbed the room. It's clean. Doesn't matter anyway. They didn't take the bait."
Dumbfounded, Markman took a seat beside her and shook his head in disbelief. "I don't get it. I worked my way through their stupid paintball contest without a scratch. They never touched me."
"I know. We watched you from a high rise with high power scopes and infrared. The damned agency wouldn't approve satellite time."
"So what's the problem?"
"Like I said, they didn't take the bait. If everything had gone as it should have, you would have been introduced to a guy named Inkman. He would have offered you a chance in a Sensesuit. You would have had to sign a few legal documents which would have eventually given them the rights to your holdings if you died. They would have set you up as a Dragon Master tonight. That's the routine. They didn't pick you up. Something went wrong."
Markman sat back and exhaled in frustration. "What the hell happened? I blew the top off their damned video game, and my time in the paintball should have been at least good. What else could I have done?"
"How many guys did you take out?"
"Six."
"Do you know how many there were?"
"No."
"Six."
Markman paused in a silent moment of understanding. "Are you trying to say that I did too well?"
"It's our best guess. Too high a score in the Virtual Death game, then cleaned out the Fishkin forest. You didn't have to run to the patio. You could have walked."
Rogers drew a silver case from her hip pocket, removed a cigarette, and lit it with a matching silver lighter. She inhaled once and blew a cloud of smoke while staring thoughtfully at nothing. "They must have recognized you as a professional. We should have chosen a different cover. In any case, it's over. We've hit another dead end. I'm not sure what to do with you. They'll either let you go to make themselves appear legitimate, or they'll try to kill you."
"What about Fishkin and Inkman? Have you checked them out completely?"
"Down to the last detail. Both were born in the U.S. of A. Good families, all deceased. Made their fortunes legally. Have very powerful friends in high places. We have nothing on them, absolutely zero, and it's politically dangerous to mess with them."
"So what are the options? Where does it go from here?"
Rogers paused nervously. "Well, maybe it's time for you to get out. They know your face and you may be in danger."
Markman frowned. "Are you kidding?"
"No, I'm not. We've lost our chance of putting you in a suit. It's a federal operation. There's really no further reason for you to be working on this."
"Oh, right. What happened to that grand little speech about how we’re all in this together all one big happy family? You guys throw me into this and now I'm suddenly not worth anything? Doesn't seem to me you're doing too good on this thing yourselves, Agent Rogers. Maybe you're right; maybe I should work this one on my own."
"You could really screw things up for us. What reason would you have to do that?"
"I haven't forgotten the lady in the lake for one thing. That's still bothering me just a bit if you remember."
Rogers stared back at him with uncertainty. She squirmed in her seat and tried to appear in control. "If I requested that you remain on the case, they'd approve it."
"Take your choice. I can go either way."
"But we've really hit a dead end on this again. We're watching Fishkin and Inkman around the clock, but since we didn't get you in, we really don't have any new leads to go on."
"I can think of a couple."
"Like what?"
"Find out what the names Gomez and Hillock have in common, for one thing."
"Where did you get that?"
"Unescorted tour."
"What? When did that happen? We tracked you every second. You were taken inside to clean up after the other guests painted you, and then a few minutes later you were booted out the front entrance like a drunken sailor."
"You guys are slipping. You didn't notice me climbing all over the outside of the damned mansion, did you?"
"What?"
"On the third-floor balcony I heard Fishkin talking on the phone about some problem with somebody named Gomez, and someplace he was calling Hillock."
Rogers was caught off guard. She winced and recovered. "We can get any information we need from my car."
"Your car?"
"My car. Better than an Ipad."
"Can I have a minute to change these jeans and get cleaned up a little?"
"I'll time you."
Rogers' late model, plain looking four-door Ford was parked in an underground parking garage one block away. She felt lucky at having found a place that close by. The vehicle's deep blue color added blandness to its no-frills edition. Markman climbed into the gray-black interior on the passenger side and found very subtle extras carefully designed into the dash and center column. There was a hidden phone between the seats and an assortment of scanners and radios that were customized to be unobtrusive and difficult to notice. Rogers took the driver's seat and popped the handset from its cradle. She tapped a single button on the lighted handle and held the receiver to her ear, looking at Markman with a curious stare.
"This is Rogers, zero-zero-three-five-zero. I need data on the names Gomez and Hillock, with correlation. Right away, please."
She tucked the handset back into its holder and slouched back in her seat with a passive sigh. "So what else did you pick up on your little excursion that we inept feds failed to notice?"
Markman smiled. "Fishkin was talking to the guy you mentioned earlier--Inkman. Called Inkman the Captain of the Soldiers; must be a rank in the Dungeon Masters or something. Anyway, they were discussing a meeting with the "Matriarch,” whatever that is. It sounded very important."
Rogers again looked taken aback. She stared out her side window and spoke with reserve. "They mentioned the Matriarch? What did they say about it?"
"They agreed not to meet again until it was with the Matriarch, whatever that is. Do you know?"
"Not really. We haven't been able to bug either Fishkin or Inkman. Their friends are too powerful. If an illegal tap were discovered, we'd be in deep. The only things we've been able to pick up have been by long range microphones when we're in a position to use them. The Matriarch is mentioned more than anything else. It represents some kind of new leadership. Big things are supposed to happen when it arrives on the scene. That's all we know. Was there anything else you heard?"
"They said something about a dividing of some kind. They called it a great new day. It sounded like something out of a damned revolution or something. Oh yeah, and Fishkin was also begging forgiveness about some accident he had on a bridge somewhere. It sounded like he almost rear-ended somebody or something. There was also an argument going on about a problem with a list. Mean anything?"
Rogers shook her head and started to answer when she was interrupted by a high pitch buzzing sound from the center console of her car. Next to Markman's left knee, a six-inch-wide strip of paper began to ratchet out from a slot in the dash, and an LCD screen began scrolling data.
"Oh good, here it comes." She pulled gently at the edge of the paper and tried to read from the printout as it was dispensed. "Very interesting! A family with the name Gomez lives at 111 Hillock Street, an hour or two from here. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say? I think we should take a ride there. Are you game?" She looked at Markman with a devilish smile. He stared back blankly.
"Are you kidding? Let's go."
She twisted the ignition and brought her office on wheels to life. Skillfully she guided the car up and out of the parking garage and headed north out of the city. She chose the back streets that ran through the aging gray and ash-red blocked buildings
in the older parts of the city. Structures that had too much historical value to be allowed to perish, bordered new glass skyscrapers in some places. Markman drank in the sights. He had been afforded few since his arrival, though the magic of New York had already enticed him.
"So how'd you end up becoming a cop, Ann?"
She glanced at him, but when their eyes met, quickly looked away. "My father was a detective with the L.A.P.D. I was in college on a liberal arts scholarship when he was tortured and killed by a terrorist named Katalia. He had been planning to blow up a high-rise in the city. My father stumbled across him while investigating a break-in at a Chem-Pak Corporation plant. I got a big run-around from the police after it happened. They said the investigation had been taken over by federal agencies. I couldn't get any answers. I transferred my studies to a law enforcement program a short time later.”
"You have other family?"
"Right after the murder, my mother accidentally got hold of the coroner's report. She couldn't handle it. She's been under psychiatric care ever since."
"So did they get the guy?"
"I'm still looking. The day I find him will be my last day in law-enforcement."
"Why's that?"
"Because I'm going to kill him."
Markman clenched his teeth and looked away. "So where's your partner, Agent Hall, these days?"
"He's overseeing the surveillance on Fishkin and Inkman. We thought it was all we had left. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing. It doesn't seem like you should be working on this alone, that's all."
"But I'm not. You're here...."