Chapter 32

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"I'm going to die."

Will sat on the bed, gently rocking to soothe his jangled nerves.

"Yes, this is the end of our hero. The end of young Will Gilbert. Poor Will, suffering so wretchedly."

He glanced around the room. Light streamed in under the bolted door. In the darkness, the thin beam was blinding.

How long had he been here? Only hours? Or days? It seemed an eternity since that terrifying night.

All I wanted was a little fun, Will moped to himself. I've earned it. Just a chance to get out. A chance to enjoy my fading youth while I still have it. Slaving day in, day out at the stinking Stinking Onion. Pining to be back on the open road. Waiting for Laura to get herself in gear and join him. Will had even found a backer: Chloe Horton had pulled some strings and the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus agreed to do a benefit concert at $100 a ticket. Will and Laura's quest could continue, without Simon Waterbury's sponsorship. Why shouldn't he celebrate?

And celebrate he did.

"I'm hitting the town," he had told Chloe, "and I'm not coming back until I get lucky! If Laura arrives, tell her to cool her jets. I'll be back. . .bleary. . .but in better spirits at the end of my bacchanal!"

First stop: The Twin Peaks, the standard jumping-off point for any respectable San Francisco pub crawl. The old bar, with its enormous plate glass windows, had earned the nasty nickname of "The Glass Coffin" from the younger set in the City by the Bay, since it was mostly patronized by gray-haired dowager queens in expensive designer sweaters. But Will liked it for its historical significance: the windows were a defiant gesture of 70s liberation. When the Peaks first opened, it was the only bar in the city with a clear viewonto the street. . .daring passerbys to peek in and see what the queers were doing. Sadly,it seemed to be couples-only night, except for a few seedy, lecherous old men.

When all hope was nearly lost, and he was about to move onto his next den of depravity, Will spotted an appealing specimen seated at a table beneath the spiral staircase. Small, sleek, elegant, with an urbane sense about him. Chestnut locks cropped close to the head, with just a hint of curl. Large eyes. Small, graceful hands.

Will readjusted himself on his bar stool. The man seemed to watch him intently. Will ever-so-casually glanced past him. Their eyes locked for an instant, and the elegant man looked away.

Will turned away, giggling. Flirtation! He triumphed inwardly. It was like meat and drink to him. The look, the glance, the coy look away. It was time to initiate his assault. Will composed himself and glanced back at the staircase.

And the elegant man was gone.

Will scanned every corner of the bar, overwhelmed by a baseless feeling that he had been cheated out of that which was rightfully his, but the man was gone.

Fiddle-dee-dee, hethought angrily. Nothing can be easy. Nothing. He took one last gulp from his frozen Cosmopolitan, fished the cherry out with his tongue, and climbed off his stool munching on the succulent maraschino. As he left the bar, a man who looked horridly out of place in a sleek Armani suit winked at him awkwardly.

Back into the streets and on to Hercule's. Part an evening in Paris, part Roman orgy, Hercule's reminded Will of a poor man's Caesar's Palace. Glittering faux marble figures flanked the doorway, and gaudy mosaics of seaside landscapes (complete with well-muscled bathers) graced the walls. He ambled toward the bar, seizing up the crowd as he went, and almost bumped into someone.

It was the elegant man.

"Hey," the man said, turning toward him and beaming broadly. "Be careful where you're going. You don't know what can happen in a place like this."

Will smiled inwardly. He had set up one rule for the evening: no Australians. And the elegant man had a pleasant, lilting non-Down Under voice. Will detected a hint of Virginia in it.

"Well," Will replied airily, "it certainly seems to be a trifle more engaging here than at The Glass Coff--I mean, the Twin Peaks. Didn't I see you there?"

The man's soft hazel eyes fixed on him, bemusedly. "Did you?"

Will was frisky, and decided to pull out all the stops. "Yes, I did, you naughty boy. You're playing little games with me."

"I like to play all sorts of games."

Will's knees quivered. The familiar feeling of nervous glee, dormant since that night so long ago in Mountain Center, when he first met Sebastian Moffat, flooded through him.

Will simpered and his eyes twinkled wickedly at the man.

"I'm Brant Dunbar," the man said, extending his hand to Will. Will shook.

"Pleased to meet you, Brant," he replied amiably. "I'm--" Suddenly, Will wanted anonymity. Perhaps, perhaps he could spend one night not being associated with Sooner Than Never. "I'm Philip Huffmann." Will cursed himself; it was the only name he could come up with in short order.

Brant's brow furrowed momentarily, as if he were suddenly confused. Later, Will had realized that he was.

"We-ell, Philip," Brant said, a smile playing on his lips, "Could I buy you a drink?"

So the evening had started off nicely enough. Brant was charming, he had a seemingly bottomless wallet of cash for cocktails, and he didn't seem to link Will with Simon Waterbury. They strolled from bar to bar, Will getting progressively louder and drunker as the evening wore on. By the time they reached The Round-Up at 3 am, Will was solidly leaning on Brant's lithe and well-toned frame.

"Please," Will slurred, as Brant offered him another Cosmopolitan, "you've just about done me in. Why don't we go back to your place?" Will attempted to be alluring by running his fingers through Brant's hair, but only succeeded in scratching the handsome stranger on the cheek. A twitch of indignation shook Brant's frame, and then he chuckled.

"We'll go soon. Cheers." Brant raised his glass, and Will unsteadily clinked. "Drink up, Will."

As Will took the first sip of that last fateful Cosmopolitan, a rush of horrid realizations swept over him. Brant had called him "Will," not "Philip." Brant had also not finished one drink all evening. Brant was sober, or near to it, and Will was fall-down drunk. And Will's drink tasted funny. It's too late, Will thought, as he realized he'd been slipped a mickey.

As he spiraled into unconsciousness, he morbidly recalled a passage from Alice in Wonderland, which he had committed to memory in the seventh grade: "She had read several nice little stories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts, and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them. . .and if one drinks too much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later."

Later, he had awakened, with an incredible headache, in the darkened cell. His only contact with another human being since his arrival had occurred when a ransom note, apparently on its way to Laura, had been thrust under the doorway with a pen. He scribbled his own contribution at the bottom of the note, and tried not to think about what the ransom note had said, and hoped with all his heart that Laura had made her way to San Francisco.

Laura would get him out of this. She was so good at dealing with extreme crises. Much better than he.

He was thirsty. And terribly scared. And lonely.

Suddenly, a key jangled in the locked door. He heard muffled curses and the sharp crack of angry conversation. The door to the cell began to slide open.

For the first time in his adult life, Will Gilbert began to mutter a prayer.

*****

"When you've finished with those, Nina sweetie, make sure you redo those contracts for the Sooner Than Never/Wheaties tie-in. They're wrong from beginning to end."

Nina Kellogg halted in the doorway, her arms weighted down with files and binders. She turned to face Vesper.

"Vesper, those contracts are fine. I spoke to Marlo in the legal department and--"

"Nevertheless, they're wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Particularly the section on third-share markets. Redo them."

"But--"

Vesper silenced her with a slim, waggling finger. "Nina, Nina. Don't contradict. We've been over this six hundred times if we've been over it once. I am the boss. THE BOSS, darling. You are here to do my bidding, my little moo cow."

Nina stared at her wordlessly, biting her thin, colorless lip.

"If you don't like it here, you could always quit. Leave. Move on. Of course, I'd suggest a top-to-bottom makeover before you go off on any interviews."

Nina's cold, gray eyes regarded her humorlessly.

Vesper considered her for a moment. "Well?" Vesper demanded. "Are you going to say anything? Don't stare at me so, heifer, you'll give me nightmares."

Nina hurled her files to the floor in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Vesper wriggled excitedly in her chair, hoping that she had finally elicited long-sought tears from her employee. Nina gently closed the door to the office, and stalked up to Vesper's desk.

"I won't quit, Vesper," she spat, "I won't give you the satisfaction. I will stay at Waterbury until I rot because I know my mere presence annoys you to no end. You are an unprofessional, idiotic, self-centered, egotistical--"

"Sticks and stones, darling. Sticks and--"

Her words were cut short as Nina's wide, flat hand slammed into the side of her creamy face with a strong, stinging slap. A few platinum locks on Vesper's head escaped their moorings, and drooped down over her face. Her mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood.

"I'm not finished yet, darling," Nina hissed. "When Mr. Waterbury hired me on lastwinter, he assured me that regardless of what happened when you returned, you would be leaving the company by the end of the year. The end of the year is rapidly approaching, Vesper. So enjoy what you have, because you won't have it long."

Indignation momentarily stunned her. What had Simon told Nina? She clasped her blotchy cheek and was maddened to feel an anxious, fat tear escape her eye. "What do you know about it, you bitchy mule? Get out of my office. I'm calling security. Get out of here or I'll shred you to pieces!" She was almost shrieking.

Nina calmly gathered up her papers, and turned to face Vesper once more. "I believe in karma, Vesper. Sooner or later, your world is going to come crashing down around you. . .and I can't wait to be there when it does."

Vesper let out a choked sob, and mopped the corner of her bleeding lip with the sleeve of her cream linen suit.

"I'll have the contracts done by tonight. You won't be able to accuse me of not doing my job."

Then, she left.

Vesper grabbed the Waterford crystal ashtray on the corner of her desk and, screaming, hurled it at the door, sending a jet of ashes across the ankle-deep, plum carpet. Alone, her pain and her shock quickly turned to rage. She mopped at her tears furiously, struggling to regain control. No one could see her like this.

The phone chimed melodically. The cool voice of Lisebeth, her assistant, came over the line.

"A Ms. Fern Findlay on the phone for you, Ms. Shillington."

Vesper hiccoughed down a sob and blew her nose noisily. "I'm not taking any calls, just now."

"She said it's an emergency."

"Who is it?"

"Her name is Fern Findlay--"

"What a positively catastrophic name--"

"--and she's calling because she's trying to find Will Gilbert and Laura Dial."

Vesper paused. She straightened in her chair and pinned her tousled locks back into her elegant coiffure. She had to get herself together. "Put her through, Lisebeth."

The phone rang and she answered.

"Hi. Is this. . .Vesper Shillington?"

"What is it that you need? Be quick."

"Umm, well, I'm a friend of Will Gilbert and Laura Dial--"

"Isn't everyone, darling?" She tenderly touched her stinging lip. It had stopped bleeding.

"I'm trying to find them, and I was wondering if you happened to know where they are."

"Mr. Gilbert and Ms. Dial no longer have any formalized relationship with Waterbury Publishing, darling. The last I heard, Mr. Gilbert was working in San Francisco and Ms. Dial was living on the Great Plains. Is something wrong, darling?"

"I--I have some important information that I need to get to them."

"Well, darling, you're barking up the wrong tree. Good day."

As her hand lowered the receiver to its cradle, she happened to glance at the Caller Identification window. She gasped and dropped the phone onto her ash-strewn desk.

Whoever Fern Findlay was, she was calling from Centralia, Pennsylvania.

Vesper's lip began to bleed again, as she nearly bit through it.

*****

Lupaae Herminosa stood in the blazing sun at a bank of pay phones across the promenade from the Haunted Mansion. Her thin, pinched face peered at the push buttons through her inch-thick glasses.

She dialed, and the voice answered.

"Yes?"

"I am in the park. I am waiting for my contact to get me in."

"Excellent. You'll remember your story if you're caught?"

Lupaae grimaced. "You take me for some sort of idiot? You've hired the best, estupido."

"Good luck."

She replaced the phone and glanced about her. A gangly teenager, dressed in a turquoise Disney World uniform, came down the baking concrete path toward her, picking up bits of litter with a long-handled spike. He nodded at her and walked around the corner of a nearby refreshment stand, which was busily selling lemonade in collectible cups for $5.95 a piece.

Lupaae followed. Behind the building, away from the teeming throngs of tourists, the man opened a metal grate in the sidewalk. Stairs led down from it, into impenetrable darkness.

Lupaae removed a plump, poorly concealed envelope from her none-too-ample bosom, and handed it to the pimply youth. "Gracias, querido."

She disappeared down the staircase, and he closed the grate behind her.

*****

Laura sat on the balustrade at the crest of Russian Hill, with Chloe Horton's cordless phone beside her.

". . .if you proceed to the police, or any other state or national organizations regarding this matter, Mr. Gilbert will immediately be released from our care, one piece at a time. . ."

In the two days since her arrival in San Francisco, she hadn't slept. Or eaten. Or bathed. She just sat, close by the phone, every nerve and muscle in her body tensed in anticipation of a phone call from Will or his kidnappers.

She couldn't go to the press. She couldn't call anyone. All she could do was wait.

Suddenly, the phone rang, weakly, its electronic hum carried away on the brisk breezes. She snatched it up.

"Hello, this is Laura Dial."

"What are you, working in an office?"

"Who is this?"

"Laura, it's Fern. Thank God I found you. I forgot the name of the woman that Will was staying with, and I couldn't get a hold of--"

"Fern, I can't talk. I've got to keep this phone line open."

"Is everything ok? What's going on?"

"I can't. . .I've got to go."

"Listen, Laura. I talked to Gertie Huffmann. In Centralia. Philip Huffmann had a sister, who disappeared around the same time he did. She was bad news--"

"Fern, I really have to go. I can't--"

"Laura, I think Philip Huffmann's sister is Vesper Shillington."

Laura was numb. . .too tired to care, too addled to question.

"I'll call you later, Fern."

She hung up the phone, bowed her head, and sobbed.

*****

"--and I just can't believe your insanity. Do you realize how much trouble we could be in?"

The door to the cell slammed open. Light flooded in, blinding Will. It took several seconds before he recognized the figures standing in the doorway.

It was Mike, standing in front of Will's assailant, Brant Dunbar.

All of the breath went out of Will's lungs. He thought he was going to faint. The edges of the room grew hazy, out-of-focus.

Mike rushed into the cell. "Will. Will! It's all right! You're all right!"

Will took a deep breath, wondering if he was going to be sick. He swallowed, then spoke.

"Is this because I beaned you at the Winchester Mystery House?"

A smile played at the edges of Mike's mouth. "No, Will. I'm so sorry. I got here as soon as I could. This is the result of extreme bureaucratic mismanagement and miscommunication. . .and the work of an idiot."

Brant Dunbar flinched in the doorway. "My instructions," he said acidly, "were to detain Will Gilbert at all costs. That's what I did!"

Mike turned on his coworker. "You didn't need to write a note that threatened we were going to kill him! Jesus Christ, you're so melodramatic!"

"I needed to guarantee that this didn't turn into a media frenzy. That woman would have gone to the police in two seconds flat."

Mike shook his head and sighed. "You're a walking disaster, Dunbar. Go see how the other two are doing."

Will's mind spun. The other two? Who else had been kidnapped?

Brant stormed away. Mike looked down at Will.

"First of all, Mr. Gilbert, I need you to believe me when I say that I am a card-carrying member of the Central Intelligence Agency. I can understand your earlier confusion and mistrust, but I do not appreciate being karate-chopped with a pistol. Do you have a license for that thing, by the way?"

"No," Will replied glumly, not looking up. Good God, how many laws had he broken?

"Second of all, you've skated onto some very thin ice. Or rather, your friend Seamus has."

Will looked up, blinking. "Seamus? Who's Seamus?"

Mike studied him. "Seamus. The hacker. The guy from Silicon Valley who gave you the file on Philip Huffmann. We're detaining him and Faye here, too."

"Oh."

"Will, he hacked into the CIA's records. This is not a little B and E charge, Will. This is a major breach in national security."

"But I didn't ask him to do it."

"No, but you could be considered an accomplice. Lucky for you, most of the stuff he got his hands on is pretty mundane. . .if you spent an afternoon leafing through old issues of People, you would be able to find most of it. Knowing the Federal Government, they'll probably hire him on."

"Am I going to jail?"

"I doubt it very much, Will. The possibility that you and Laura could help us is pretty good. . .as long as you don't go prying in to any more classified information."

"Whatever you want, we'll do it."

"Good. What do you know about Amber Waves of Greed?"

Will blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Obviously, you don't know anything. Which is pretty much what I thought."

Will cleared his throat. "What do you know about Sebastian Moffat?"

Mike looked at him askance. "Who?"

"Stunning Australian man, with the looks of a god and the heart of a devil. I believe he formerly went by the name of Philip Huffmann."

Mike was visibly shaken. "Philip Huffmann is alive?"

"Either that, or his evil twin brother is."

Mike absorbed this.

"Will, the Feds are concerned that Simon Waterbury is going to be revealing something--some thirty year old dirty laundry--when the Sooner Than Never treasure hunt is solved. What precisely that dirty laundry is, we're not certain. No one has told us. But we've got to solve the riddle of that damn book before someone else does, or we may have some major problems on our hands."

Somewhere, down the hall, Brant Dunbar began screaming: "Oh, shit! Oh, damn it!"

Mike cocked his head and shouted. "What the hell is going on out there?"

He was answered with pounding footsteps. Seconds later, Brant appeared in the doorway, puffing from running. "Some Hispanic woman. . .in Florida. . .she broke into The Pirates of the Caribbean. . .and she's found the next clue!"

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