Jivaja (Soul Cavern Series Book 1) Page 8

  “Huh. Any idea what they’re bringing in? I can’t tell from here how much space they’ve got. If they’re just bringing in little shit, I don’t think that space will be big enough for me.”

  The man shrugged and waved a callused hand in that direction. “They bring in a lot, they just don’t bring it often. They always got big shipments. Big boxes. Lots of men.”

  “Thanks, brother. Ever see the owner? He look like a reasonable guy?”

  “Seen an old guy come in and out of the office a lot at the end of my shift. And a young broad. Chinese. She ain’t here as often. Guess she only comes in for under the desk work, hey?” He cackled, blowing stale, garlic-laced breath.

  Who eats garlic for breakfast?

  “Thanks again. Maybe I’ll go over and check it out. At least look in the windows to see how much space is there. If no one’s around to let me have a look-see.” He got a nod in return and let the man get back to his work.

  David’s boots crunched on the gravel of the yard as he approached. The building didn’t look very sinister by light of day. All the same, a knot of anxiety and perhaps a small bit of fear gathered in his belly. Leftover from last night, he guessed. His nerves tingled as he got closer.

  The area looked abandoned, save for some tire tracks along the drive. Trash gathered against the walls: beer bottles, old rags, a rusted crowbar, and an ancient Coca Cola sign. That was probably worth something somewhere. Old newspapers in various states of decay lay scattered at the bases of the straggly bushes in front. David circled around to the side and found blacked out windows.

  Locked. Damn. Not surprising though.

  The morning sunlight glinted off the glass door as he came around to the front. Tint made the interior look gloomy and desolate. Inside, file cabinets leaned against walls and computers perched on desks. Beneath the inky-black windows on the east wall sat a number of short file cabinets, along with a printer on a stand. Rather sparse, the office contained only the bare bones necessary to run a business.

  He checked the door on the off chance it might be unlocked. It wasn’t. What next? He had no moves beyond this office. The only clues that might lead him to Mecca hid in there.

  He returned to the side of the building and looked at the windows. Could he break one of them without drawing too much attention to himself? He glanced at the small hedge shading this side of the building from its neighbor a good three hundred yards away. Maybe the sound wouldn’t carry.

  He pulled off his jacket, goose bumps creeping up on his skin in the cool morning air. He wrapped the fleece around his fist and forearm. Breaking the window shouldn’t be too hard. Then he’d be able to pull himself in through the window, onto the file cabinets, and down to the floor. He stood beside the window and slammed his forearm against it with controlled strength.

  Electric pain shot up his forearm as it bounced off the window with a loud thump. The glass rattled, but didn’t move otherwise.

  “Goddammit!” He held his arm to his belly, grinding his teeth until the pain faded to a low thrum. That’s the last time I do shit like they do in the movies.

  He needed something harder than his arm to break that window. He circled the building as he pulled the jacket back on, taking care not to jostle his arm too much. Trash against the side of the building caught his eye.

  The crowbar.

  He snatched the rusty piece of metal from a pile of debris against the wall. The sign beside it told him to have a Coke and a smile. And that sounded good to him right now. The Coke anyway. He wasn’t much in a smiling mood.

  David stalked over to the window. “Fuck subtle.” He swung and the crowbar crashed against the corner of the glass. It shattered. Some pieces fell to the ground, but most clung to wire embedded in the window. He stared at it for a second.

  Fucking mesh in the window.

  He swore under his breath and looked around, sure that someone must be calling the cops by now. The men in the yard next door continued to haul crates off a trailer. The thudding in his chest slowed.

  He smashed the window again and more glass skittered to the ground. He’d cleared the lower left corner now, except for the wire. The rest of the pane was shattered but glass held fast like a gossamer web of crystal.

  The mesh remained tucked into the window frame. David hooked the crowbar into the wire and heaved. The metal pulled free of the frame with a grinding sound. More glass sprinkled to the ground.

  When he’d pulled up enough of the corner to slip inside, he tossed the crow bar to the ground. He eased himself through the opening and skidded across the top of a file cabinet, head first. Too late, he realized that the inside floor was at least a foot lower than the outside ground. He landed on his head with a grunt.

  After he got his feet back under him, David brushed himself off and scanned the office. A tall counter with a Formica top bisected the room, separating the work space from a small waiting area in the front. A computer monitor, keyboard and mouse, as well as a small hanging file system sat on top of the counter. Two desks crowded the work area, both with their own computers and phones. A small stand with a combination fax and printer took up one corner at the end of the file cabinets.

  No decorations brightened the desks. No personal pictures, no silly office toys. Nothing suggested that people with personalities worked here.

  A door stood ajar on the far side of the room, and David found a large office behind it. Spartan, like the outer area, it contained only a desk, chair, computer, phone and a row of grey, metal file cabinets against the wall. They obviously hadn’t converted to cloud storage yet.

  He flipped the computer on and looked through the cabinet drawers while the machine booted.

  Shipping manifests, invoices, customs documentation; had he really expected to find more? Emilia Laos apparently imported all manner of things from artwork to horticulture. When the computer beeped behind him, he slammed the drawer closed.

  The screen prompted him for a password.

  Last year, he’d bought cracking software, partly out of boredom and partly out of curiosity. He wished he had it right now. Picking random words didn’t seem to work. He knew it wouldn’t. He found nothing in the desk to clue him in to what the password might be. After fifteen minutes, he growled and turned the computer off.

  How to find Mecca now? Everything led to a dead end. Maybe he should go back and lean on Jim some more. Just how deep did his friend’s involvement go? His loyalty didn't seem to lie with Emilia Laos or her group. David considered the phone call Jim received while he was still there and his own gaze wandered to the phone in front of him. He sat up straight.

  The phone had an LCD display along the top. The receiver felt heavy in his hand, though he knew it was made of the same plastic as other office phones. His nerves tingled again as he touched the redial button. Numbers appeared on the display. The line rang in his ear as he grabbed a pen and wrote the number across the top of his hand.

  “Hello?” A male voice. His mind raced.

  “Is Ms. Laos available?” The long pause made him jumpy. “She has something that I want.”

  “Who's calling, please?”

  “My name is David Trenow.”

  No response came, but he still heard sound on the other side. The line remained open.

  A female voice in the background said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

  David's heart jumped.

  The man's voice finally answered. “Hold the line please.”

  The other voice had been Mecca’s.

  David waited, listening to the open line, hoping to hear her again. A knot grew in his stomach.

  Mecca was alive.

  He heard murmuring on the other end of the phone, then a cultured, female voice spoke. “Mr. Trenow?”

  “Is this Emilia Laos?” Everything in him wanted to go through the phone at her.

  “Yes, it is. It's a pleasure to speak with you.” She spoke with a faint accent he couldn't place, though it sounded Asian.


  “I can't say the same. You have my daughter.” He stood from the leather chair and paced as far as the corded phone would allow.

  “I understand your position. Mecca has not been harmed, nor will she be, so please try not to fear for her safety.”

  “I want her back.”

  “That isn't possible at this time. However, I welcome a chance to speak with you about the current situation.”

  What the hell? She was talking like she was conducting a business deal, not about the freedom of his daughter. “How much do you want?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What's your price? Let's get this all on the table.”

  “There is no price, Mr. Trenow. I am not ransoming her.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Are you free tomorrow? I have engagements for the rest of today, but am free in the morning. Perhaps breakfast?”

  “I want my daughter.”

  She let a quiet pause sit in the air. “Then meet with me.”

  Anger sent little pinpricks of heat along his cheeks. “All right, but on my terms,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. I will call you at this number. Be ready.”

  The line went silent for a very long moment.

  “Very well,” she finally said. “I will wait for your call.” The line clicked and she'd gone.

  Chapter Eight: Mecca

  Someone had removed the leg belts while she’d been drugged this time.

  Mecca remained attached to the bed, but they’d left the chains on her cuffs, so she felt as close to free as she had been since she’d gotten here. The added mobility also allowed her to eat the food they’d brought earlier.

  For a long time, she’d refused, until Will told her — the last time she was awake — that if she didn’t eat, they’d feed her intravenously and put a catheter in her. Mecca decided the turkey sandwich didn’t look half bad. She'd eaten the whole thing, faster than she’d expected.

  Will had been moving toward the door when she told him she needed to use the bathroom. He didn't reply to her, but as he left, she saw the cell phone pressed to his ear. He must have had it on vibrate. Damn. If I'd know he was on the phone I could have screamed or something. Instead, I told him I had to pee.

  This might be the only time they left her alone and awake at once. She didn't want to waste any of it.

  Mecca shoved the plate off her lap and onto the bed beside her legs. She examined the thick leather cuffs on her wrists. They didn't seem to have any sort of locking mechanism, only a belt-like fastener.

  The chain rattled against the bed rail as she frantically worked with her mouth to unfasten the cuff encircling her left wrist. It took a moment, more awkward than difficult. As the handcuff came free, she kicked the covers off of her legs.

  At the foot of the bed, the plate with her uneaten chips on it began a slow slide. Mecca noticed too late. She scrambled to catch it. Everything slowed down as the plate fell sideways and smashed to the floor, sending ceramic shards and wavy potato chips in all directions, in spite of the thick oriental rug.

  Mecca froze, certain Emilia must have heard the heavy thud from wherever she might be in the building. For those moments, Mecca's head throbbed along with her heartbeat. She fiddled with the cuff on her right hand, but slowly, quietly.

  When no one broke through the door, Mecca swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She pulled the chain free of the bed rail and held it and the free cuff in the crook of her elbow as she worked more diligently on the one still on her right wrist. The IV tube stretched and the taped needle tugged on the skin of her hand. She got to her feet.

  The room tilted and then wobbled. Someone had turned it on its corner. Then it spun like a top. Mecca eased back against the bed and closed her eyes. Please don't let me puke. The turkey sandwich felt alive in her belly. Like it wanted to crawl back up her throat. Ugh.

  Her stomach twisted. Saliva flooded her mouth. She retched and gagged and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Bile burned the back of her throat.

  No. I have to get out of here. I don’t have time for this.

  She drew a long breath in through her nose that made a tight, wispy sound, but it slowed her hammering pulse. Her belly tightened again and she took another deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. She willed her body to relax and concentrated on breathing.

  The turkey sandwich settled down and Mecca opened her eyes cautiously. The room remained intact in the proper position and did not seem inclined to move this time. She lowered her hand.

  Blood smeared, dark and wet, across the top of her hand. The needle, tape still adhered to it, lay off the edge of the bed. A single drop of fluid hung from its tip, pink with a mix of the clear liquid in the tube and her own blood. Mecca shook her head and started again on the other cuff.

  How much time had passed? It felt like an hour, but she knew it couldn't have been. The cuff finally fell away, and she left both of them and the chain in a serpentine pile on the bed.

  She pushed to her feet again. The room didn't swim this time so she took two steps along the thick carpet beneath her feet, testing her balance. Though still queasy, her belly had stopped rocking, and the turkey sandwich seemed restful.

  She went to the door. The smooth knob turned a quarter of an inch, then stopped, locked. She ran her fingers along the seam, where the door met the frame. Mecca stepped back and looked at it.

  It was a simple wooden door, stained to match the chair rails, with a modern, brushed silver knob on the left. No keyhole anywhere. The black electronic pad on the door had no buttons. She ran her fingers over the cool surface. The metal card reader. She didn't think she had any way of overriding it. Mecca took a step back and studied the door.

  The hinges. They were on the right side of the door. But more importantly, they were inside the room.

  It can’t be that simple, can it?

  But they obviously didn’t expect her to ever be mobile.

  Mecca dragged the chair over from the writing desk, positioned it behind the hinges and stepped up with care. The pin in the top hinge turned readily, but when she tried to lift it up and out of its metal casing, it wouldn't budge. She slid her thumbnails between the head of the pin and the top of the hinge. She wiggled it and tried to lever it up. Her nails bent backward and desperation welled up with the burn in her fingertips.

  “Come on,” she whispered. Please.

  She tried again, this time with one thumb and two fingers on the same hand. The hall seemed silent. A soft click came from the doorknob. Before she could react, the door opened and slammed into one of the wooden chair legs. The chair shook. Mecca, reflexively, took a step back. Her heel missed the chair altogether. She had just a moment to see Claude's surprised face peek around the door before she fell.

  Her right shoulder connected with the wall with a thud. It twisted her body and she slid. She ended up folded between the chair and the wall, her backside almost on the floor. Her left leg remained on the chair and her right leg lay pinned beneath her. She didn't think she was seriously hurt, but her window of opportunity closed as she and Claude stared at each other.

  She scrambled to get her feet beneath her and pulled herself upright by the back of the chair.

  Claude's surprise had dwindled, and now he watched her, his face drawn in a tight, wary mask. Mecca thought of a snake, tensed to strike. That was how he looked.

  Her skin tingled as she watched him. That weird feeling again. Claude closed the door with two fingers. It latched shut, then locked with an electronic whirr and click that sounded final. She couldn’t let it be.

  If she could get him down, she'd probably find a plastic key on him. Then she could escape. They watched each other like gunfighters at high noon.

  Claude wasn't dressed like a gunfighter though. He wore tight black jeans and black boots along with a navy blue, short-sleeved polo shirt. The outfit made him look more like a porcelain doll than ever.

  “You should get back in the bed, Ms. Trenow,” Claude said, his voice flat
. “Emilia won't be pleased that you're up.”

  Mecca lunged forward, both arms in front of her. He blocked her right hand, but the fingers of her left hand wrapped around his upper arm, just above the elbow.

  Mecca couldn't waste a moment. She sent her energy out into him, searching for the Cavern, for the captured soul she knew he must have.

  His Cavern, dark and grey, superimposed itself on reality. Claude's face was clear to her and only inches away from her own, but her soul's vision overlaid his face like a translucent layer, showing her the Cavern as her own energy moved through it.

  In the span of a moment, Mecca felt the enormity of his soul's Cavern, empty and crumbling, like the inside of a long-forgotten cave. Fuzz covered the floor, thick and inky black. It reminded Mecca of the wooly surface of mold on cheese, and she was glad she didn't have to walk there.

  A faint glow came from a tiny alcove inside the far wall. Behind the vision of the Cavern, Claude's face reddened and his blue eyes flashed with dark anger and knowledge. More than knowledge — understanding.

  His grip tightened on her shoulders as her spirit slipped into the alcove. A bound bundle of energy glowed with bright golden light, though it seemed dim because hundreds of grey tendrils covered it, maybe thousands, anchored it to the black mossy floor.

  How would she ever free it? She circled the energy, trying to find a weakness in his hold on it.

  The connection broke. Mecca's life force slammed back into her.

  She realized, with sudden surprise, that she was airborne, sailing across the room. The wall stopped her with a crash, and sharp pain knifed down her spine like a plant taking root.

  As she hit the floor, her head cracked against the chair rail. The room dimmed. Air hissed out of her lungs, and she gulped to refill them, trying not to panic.

  She didn't pass out, but the room wouldn't come quite into focus. It shuddered and wobbled. She couldn't stop sucking in large swallows of air; it was the only sound in the room. Claude stood over her, but as she tried to center her vision, she found that she kept seeing two of him. She closed her eyes. She opened them again and blinked several times. A hammer thrummed at the back of her head.