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Chapter One

Unknown places
With all these unknown faces
Waking up from a dream
To find yourself in a stream
A stream of mysteries
Now you must forget your histories
And focus on escaping
You were really always lost
In a stream of mysteries
That really does describe your histories
But forget about them for the time being
Because you must work to keep yourself beaming
And at the end of this long journey
This journey will be the attorney
Which will get you out of this prison you call your life
You won’t need a hunting knife
All your worries will be gone forever
If you survive this strange endeavor

Olivia Wilson sat in the rainbow-colored beach chair, laid back with sunglasses pulled back to her smooth forehead, which the wind was blowing on gently. Looking out into a beautiful sea of crystal clean water which the setting sun made sparkle, Wilson picked up a glass decorated to resemble a coconut from a spotless, glass circular table next to her and slowly sipped the fresh cold mango smoothie. It tasted cool in the warm surroundings. She looked over next to her to a matching chair - empty. What a shame. It was a glorious evening. As if her thoughts were broadcasted, a young man, with a short beard, sharp eyebrows and a face looking exhausted slowly seated himself into the chair.
“Hey Alex,” Wilson said in an emotionless voice, “what’s up?” Rolling his eyes slightly, Alex itched his beard. “It’s time, Olivia.” Rubbing her light green eyes, Wilson yawned softly.
“Been a long day, huh? Sitting in a chair. Hard work,” Alex remarked sarcastically. Wilson turned to face him, with a smirk that could be taken as threatening. “I’ve been thinking. You should try it some time.” And with that little friendly suggestion, Wilson jumped from the chair and started to trek down a path of unbalanced sand, surrounded by magnificent large, healthy plants.
It only took a few minutes to reach a gray building that looked and smelled of new paint, and she reached into her pocket and grabbed a thin card, with “RC” written on it and a swirl in the background, the rarely used logo of the company that had created the card. She slipped the card through a slot next to a door, and a little green light emanated from the slot. She swung open the now unlocked door, removed the access card from the slot and quickly headed up some stairs. Quite unlike the outside, the floors, walls and stairs all had chipping black paint, and about every step hosted a spider’s web. A sole lamp hung on the wall, dimly lighting the room. Every step Wilson took she heard a nerve-racking noise, somewhere between a squeak and a crack, and it echoed around the room. Wilson soon reached the top and met a door resembling the other. She repeated her actions with her access card, and walked into a lighted hallway.
The swift change from dimness to this light gave Wilson a second’s headache. A carpet embroiled with all varieties of designs rested on the wooden floor, and rooms, mostly small, crowded each side of the hallway. Wilson had always thought it looked rather like a hospital, with the rooms, which were in fact offices, resembling patients’ rooms. Large chandeliers decorated the ceilings, each made up of endless miniature light bulbs.
Near the end of the decorated hallway, after greeting her friend Soledadi, Wilson knocked on a door with a silver plate across it reading “Victor I. Foreman.” A muffled voice instructed her to come in, which she did. An African-American man was sitting at his desk, which held another silver nameplate. He was shuffling through piles of papers, other papers spilling over the side of his desk, and still others stuffed into draws.
“Everything is according to plan Sir?” Wilson asked. Vic heaved a sigh. “I’ve told you. Call me Vic.” And then his face seemed to change to a darker expression, and he leaned forward and beckoned her to come closer with his finger.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he inquired. “I am,” Wilson replied without hesitation. Vic leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache.
“Very well then.” Vic suddenly stood up and walked over to Wilson as if to hug her goodbye. “I am sorry,” he said sincerely, and all Wilson saw was something blurry heading towards her face and a brief pain before everything turned to black.
John Cross was tossing and turning in his bed. What had he just done? Why? He tried to ignore the thoughts as if it all would go away, but they wouldn’t and he knew it. Teri Fisher. He really didn’t deserve her. She forgave him every time he...oh, but why? It wasn’t that he didn’t like Teri anymore. But there was something about that other girl – Chloe. The way she smiled… Cross trailed off in his mind, still regretting that he had just cheated on his girlfriend with a stranger. Cross could have sworn he heard footsteps, but it was probably just the floors squeaking again, and he went to sleep.
Now, five hours later, he woke up. But it was not where he went to sleep. Cross woke up to look at a wooden ceiling, which he guessed (correctly) to be made recently. Cross began to focus on what seemed like shapes carved into it, and thought he saw a spiral. He blinked, and it was gone. Finally, Cross seemed to come into full awareness and realized that he wasn’t in his bedroom and jumped up, looking around anxiously. Under much more normal circumstances, he would have found his surrounding bland and boring, but the place had an eerie feel to it. The only light was coming from small light bulbs hung from the ceiling by thin strings. These light bulbs followed this pattern continuously all the way down a hallway, which was made entirely of wood. Nails could be seen sticking out in some parts of the wall; whoever built the place did not seem to care how much of an impression they made on their guests, as some of entire pieces of wood were sticking out altogether, and one of the light bulbs had fallen, the string being too thin to support its weight, and it had turned into pieces of glass resting along the floor. If someone had been watching, they would have known it was while the light was turned off, which would explain why the not so lovely creation was not burned down.
Cross found the walls much more interesting then anything else. Lined up against it were countless old bookshelves, each filled messily with books in poor condition, their covers having almost fallen off and the spines slowly slithering their way out. There were other objects on the shelves, including old newspapers, maps, a globe which was scribbled on, and index cards with numbers written on them. Dust was invading the empty spaces and falling to the floor, spreading along like water when it spills.
Cross then looked down at the floor, and what he saw he decided was much, much more interesting then an old bookshelf. Spread out like clothes in Cross’ bedroom, four people lay motionless on the floor. The one furthest away from him, almost touching the wall, was a broad man lying on his stomach. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and his arms were large and muscular. Looking to be in his mid-30s, he had short light black hair, which was mostly covered by a black baseball cap. Next to him was a dark-skinned woman lying on her back. Like the man, she looked to be in her mid-30s. Her long, silky black hair was spread all around her head, and there was a bruise mark on her forehead. She was the only of the people that wore a wedding ring, which had a diamond-shaped object attached to it. Strewn across her back was the hand of another woman, who had a slender and curvy body and blonde hair that reached down to her waist. In Cross’ opinion, she had a rather beautiful face, with not a bump on it. At Cross’ knee was a man with a frowning mouth, thick eyebrows, and messy black hair.
After Cross took this in, his first instinct was to check if they were alive, but then thought to look on the other side of him and swung his head around, almost colliding with the pale face of Olivia Wilson. In shock, Cross gasped loudly and almost fell down on the hard floor. Recovering himself, he quickly observed Wilson’s features. “Who are you?” In the quiet of the proceeding night and the short minute he had been awake, Cross had almost forgotten the sound of voices and lost his balance, banging his head on the floor. “Are you okay?” Wilson asked in a nervous voice and offered a hand to Cross. Graciously accepting it, Cross grabbed it and heaved himself up from the ground. “Where are we?” Wilson asked. Cross wished he knew the answer. A tear rolled down from Wilson’s eye, and noticing it, she wiped it away. Her attention turned to the four bodies and with a shiver, as if it was cold, she asked in a shaky voice, “Are they…alive?” Cross turned to her and grabbed a red arrowhead which hung on his necklace. As if praying, Cross whispered something to himself and then focused on Wilson’s inquiry. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Wilson followed Cross to the blonde woman, and prepared to take her pulse, although he wasn’t certain how to do it. “You know anything about takin’ pulses?” he asked Wilson desperately. Wilson shivered again and pulled herself together. “No… but…” After a moment’s silence, Cross turned to face Wilson.
“But what?” he questioned. “If we’re alive,” Wilson continued, “then why wouldn’t they be?” Cross seemed to think about this theory for a minute, then suddenly grabbed an old book and flung it against the wall, making a loud sound with a faint echo. On cue, three of the people’s eyes opened and they all clumsily sat up. Wilson gasped, and Cross made a note in his mind that the gasping might become annoying. The muscular man was the first to ask the obvious questions:
“Where are we? Who are you?” But no one knew the answers to these, or at least no one was willing to share them. The blonde was the first to notice the still unconscious woman and bent down, putting her fingers on her wrist. “She’s alive,” she said dramatically. The muscular man heaved a sigh of relief. He turned to the man who frowned in his sleep.
“You, what’s your name?” He seemed hesitant to answer but finally revealed it in a slight French accent that it was Maurice. “What’s yours?” he said back almost in a hostile tone. “Swanson. Jack Swanson,” he replied. Cross was looking about the bookshelves, noticing the cover of the book he had thrown had fallen off. Judicial Power. Next to it the name “JENNIFER” had been carved into the floor. More and more riddles to solve. While absorbed in his discoveries, the blonde had introduced herself as Rachel Anderson, a spinal surgeon from Massachusetts. Swanson bent down and joined Anderson near the unconscious woman. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked. “She’s just knocked out. She’ll wake up soon,” Anderson replied, though she sounded unsure of this answer. Swanson turned to Wilson. “When did you wake up?” he questioned. “Just barely a minute ago,” she said. Swanson nodded his head in understanding. “What’s your name?” Wilson introduced herself to the group, and for a moment they all seemed to be absorbed in their own thoughts until a scream broke the silence.
They all looked towards the source, which happened to be the formerly unconscious woman. All in a second’s time, her eyes had flittered open; she had viewed her surroundings and noticed they were unfamiliar, and let out a scream for help. Anderson’s instinct was to calm her, but before she could the woman grabbed her neck. “Where am I? Did you take them too? Let me out! HELP!” Cross and Swanson rushed to Anderson’s aid, pulling the woman’s fingers off Anderson.
“Did you hurt them?!” she screamed. “Listen to me,” Swanson said loudly, still holding her arm against the floor, “we are all in the same situation. None of us knows where we are.” The woman looked at Anderson, as if for reassurance. “Do you know where we are?” Anderson asked. The question caused Wilson to come closer, as if she was eager to hear the answer. The woman sighed. “No.” Cross and Swanson released their grip from her hands. At her answer, Wilson let out a slow breath, causing Maurice to look at her suspiciously. “You relieved about something?” he growled. Wilson stared at him, her eyes berating him.
“Just that she’s alive,” she said matter-of-factly and helped the woman stand up. “Who’s ‘them’?” Anderson asked her. “My kids….my husband.” She hid her face in her hands and started weeping. “I’m sure they’re alright,” Anderson said soothingly. “Doubtful,” mumbled Maurice under his breath, earning him a cold stare from Anderson. “I’m Sarah”, she said. Maurice turned to Swanson.
“You gotta be quicker. I mean, how long did you have before she said her name? You could have rudely interrupted anytime.” Maurice spat on the ground and chuckled to himself. With everyone anxious for the next move, Swanson decided to assign himself the leader of this group. “Why doesn’t everyone just stay calm? Look…none of us know why we’re here or where or who took us.” Swanson started to pace to the other side of the hallway. “If anyone even THINKS they have any information on those three questions, then PLEASE speak up.” Sarah felt like a student in a classroom when the teacher asked a question. “I saw – I think I saw the man who abducted me last night,” she said finally.
“Honey, did you put them in the safe?” Sarah rubbed cold water over her long face with her hands and flapped her hands, sending the water into the sink. She looked up into a large mirror above the sink, which was bordered by a dark green frame. She stood on a floor made up of light green and white tiles, which were too small to fit a mouse. A man nearing baldness walked into the large bathroom where Sarah was. “Of course,” he grunted. After observing herself in the mirror for a time, Sarah turned to her husband. “Are the kids asleep?” He nodded his head and began to walk out until Sarah gently grabbed his arm. “Be careful,” she said under her breath. He remained silent and began walking away.
“Oh, and Steve,” Sarah added, “don’t screw this up.” Sarah picked up a toothbrush from the counter when she heard a loud thump. “Steve?” she asked and when she received no response, she swiftly ran outside of the bathroom to the rest of the large hotel room. A large bed rested nearest her, and two cots were placed next to it, filling the space between the bathroom and the windows, which was covered by vanilla white curtains. “Steve…” Sarah repeated nervously, turning to face a body lying on the floor. “Steve!” Sarah was in too much shock to notice a masked man standing over his body. She tried to scream but it got caught in her throat and the world paned away as nothingness clouded her eyes.

When she finished recounting these events to the others, they seemed disappointed, as they realized this wouldn’t help them is any way. “Well what do we do next Boss,” Maurice asked Swanson. Swanson was briefly absorbed in his own mind until he replied to Maurice’s question. “We should check this place out,” he said, motioning down one way of the hallway. “Split up,” Anderson said, “three of us go one way; three of us go the other.” When no one complained, Cross began to walk down one way, staring intensely at the many books scattered on the bookshelves.
Watching him walk away, Anderson and Wilson both raced to catch up with him and Swanson, Maurice and Sarah walked the opposite direction. Both were the same; bookshelves full of old books in poor condition were placed on the walls. Maurice had a spontaneous feeling of curiosity and picked up a book from a bookshelf. The cover was a dark shade of red and fancy letters revealed that it was a dictionary for political terms. Uninterested, Maurice tucked it back in between two thick books and selected another. He could barely make out the title: The System. Finding himself a bit appealed, Maurice opened to the first page and found a short entry:

In 2005 The System was enforced, replacing the rules, which proved to be inadequate in providing us with a constructed environment. The System focuses on key disadvantages the rules failed to fulfill. In the case of a Type A emergency, The System must be strongly enforced.

Maurice looked up to see Swanson and Sarah hurrying along without him, and he quickly closed the book shut and, tucking it under his arm, raced to catch up with them.
Walking the other way, Cross was still peeling his eyes over the bookshelves, Anderson and Wilson had a discussion about their whereabouts the night before, which proved to be boring. “And what about you, Cross?” Anderson asked as she stepped on an extremely creaky board of wood. Still engaged in the books, Cross turned his attention to her. “What about me?” Anderson brushed a few strands of hair out of her face before answering. “What were you up to last night?” she said.
“Oh,” said Cross distantly. “Got back from work, went to a bar, slept.” Cross didn’t bother telling them the personal quandary he had gotten into. After that, Cross, Anderson and Wilson walked along in uncomfortable silence, their shoes creaking on the floor, reminding Cross of the floor in his apartment. The line of bookshelves never failed to cease, and the tradition of them being crowded with broken, old books continued. Skimming the books with his eyes, Cross came across something that intrigued him: a book that was in perfect condition, and had big golden letters spelled out across the side: READ ME.

Chapter 2

Just another day
No need to pray
Everything was just perfection
Until happiness delivered a rejection
There was worry on your face
But I felt no need to embrace
Just went to sleep early
And when I woke up…
You were gone; you left not even a trace
Except a mysterious card on the floor; that began my biggest case
My missing wife
Without you incomplete is my life
Now that you’re missing
My lips struggle to remember your kissing
And now you’re gone, you left me lonely
Because you’re the one and only
I will never love again
It will only cause me pain
I still hope for that day…for you to return
Because now every night I do pray
Every single day

Detective Andrew Strauss sipped the last of his coffee as he slid his car between two white police cars, each bearing the insignia of the New York City Police Department, and next to it the letters NYPD shined in light blue paint. Strauss exited his car and walked along the sidewalk heading towards a large building with “NEW YORK CITY POLICE STATION” imprinted in huge, block letters above the main entrance. The sidewalk was surrounded by neatly trimmed grass, that still had remnants of dew from the early morning, and it curved left toward two big glass doors that were the entrance of the building. Morning dew was still adrift in the air, and the sun was beaming down on Strauss, warming him.
When he reached the doors, he pulled it open to the atmosphere of chaos; people were running back and forth in a large room, although all the people in it and the desks crammed beside the walls made it seem small. Strauss shuffled his way through his fellow officers, sliding his yellow car key into the pocket of his suit. Surviving the reckless journey, he went through a door located in the back wall, where he greeted a blood analyst – Lewis? Was it? – helping himself to a donut decorated with multicolored sprinkles. This room was less crowded; only a dozen or so officers, mostly making small talk and helping themselves to coffee, donuts and muffins that were spread out neatly on a table.
Strauss walked to an elevator, which opened as soon as he pressed a button with an arrow pointing upwards. He walked in, solitary, and pressed a button with a “4” on it. The doors closed and re-opened in a short matter of time, and Strauss walked out into a room like the one downstairs, but less people seemed to be scrambling around frantically. His partner, Detective Peter Sanders, was leaning against the wall near the elevator, with a vanilla folder in his hand, as if waiting for Strauss, and when Strauss started walking through the room, he followed. “So what we got today?” Strauss asked, walking fast, weaving between people to avoid collisions. “Jack Swanson; disappeared sometime last night – or early this morning. His apartment shows signs of a struggle.” Sanders handed the folder to Strauss, who opened it to find a picture of Swanson and a lengthy paragraph of tiny print describing Swanson’s life in a quick summary.
Strauss skimmed through it and then turned left; reaching a big brown desk muddled with papers, folders, a phone and an empty water bottle was slowly rolling off the side. “That’s it?” Strauss asked in a bored voice. “Yeah, that’s it,” Sanders responded. Strauss tossed Swanson’s folder on the desk – his desk – and itched his nose. He was secretly disappointed of his assignment; usually they were more interesting. “I gotta hit the head. Meet ya at the door,” Sanders said, and hurried off to the restroom. Strauss breathed, noting in his head that he almost forgot what the warm air was like. The past few weeks had been a freezing winter, but now New York City finally seemed to be getting some sunlight and warmth. Instead of frost covering the grass around the station, like usual, dew had dribbled over it today.
Walking towards the elevator, his path was blocked by the buff police chief, Lee Loumer. Chief Loumer was balding, the only remnants of his gray hair resting along the sides of his head. The rest of his hair rested under his nose, and the rest was a beard covering his unusually wide chin. Strauss remembered when he had just joined the police; he would instantly stiffen up like a soldier whenever he came face to face with Loumer, but Loumer had never really given him a reason to do that, although he still showed him a lot of respect – at least, lots more then Captain Griffin, who seemed to have a vendetta against Strauss for getting emotionally involved with his work and “bending the rules” occasionally.
“Listen Strauss,” Loumer spoke gruffly, sparing a moment to check the time on a square clock perched on top of the wall. “Don’t do anything…stupid. I know you want to find Emily. I understand – “ “Emily?! What are you talkin’ about?!” Strauss interrupted; his eyes wide with anxiety and interest. Loumer looked at him, a perplexed emotion shading his eyes. “What do you mean ‘what am I talking about?’” Strauss had begun his sentence barely before Loumer had finished. “I mean what did you find about her?!” Strauss’ voice had risen, and one of the detectives had looked up. “I have to go downstairs, maybe we can talk there,” Loumer suggested, pushing the button that summoned the elevator, and the doors to it instantly opened. Strauss and Loumer stepped in, Loumer glancing at the detective still looking at them. “Get back to work Karen,” he said disapprovingly, and she reluctantly turned back to a pile of papers held in her hand. Loumer sighed loudly. “Griffin didn’t tell you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. “Tell me what?” Strauss said back, his voice having dropped a bit. “You know about the Swanson case?” Strauss nodded. “Well,” Loumer continued, “at his apartment they found a card. There were two letters written on it and in the background a kind of swirl that was thought to be an insignia…” Loumer didn’t have to say any more; Strauss understood. The elevator opened, having reached the bottom floor, and Strauss and Loumer stepped out. “That’s all they know?” Strauss asked. “For now,” Loumer said, and walked away. Strauss decided he would take a short detour before meeting Sanders at the entrance.
The station was still bustling with people, and Strauss pushed through them, getting to a big glass window with a door on the side of it, with a sign that read “Captain J. Griffin.” Without knocking, Strauss threw the door open and trudged inside. Griffin looked up from some paperwork, his dark black eyebrows raised, and the expression on his face told Strauss that he was bemused. “You know…when you gave me and Peter that Swanson case…you neglected to mention a few minor details.” Griffin rolled his eyes and sighed, an amused grin forming on his face.
“I can’t afford distractions,” he said, laying down a pen gently on his desk. “Distractions!” Strauss growled, and was ready to say more when Griffin cut him off. “I can’t have your emotions getting in the way of your work.” Strauss just stared at him.
“This might help me find my wife. Emily…” The thoughts of her filled his head with longing. “She disappeared one day and all that they ever found was a card that said “RC” on it. Now they find the EXACT damn card at another missing person’s place and you don’t even think to tell me! ME!” The amused look on Griffin’s face was fading, and it was being replaced by anger. “Loumer told you. Can’t keep a secret to save his life.” He seemed to be talking to himself now. “You barge into a superior’s office. Unannounced. Pointing accusations at him just because you’re too emotionally blinded –“ Griffin had returned to talking to Strauss.
“I can’t have emotions?!” Strauss yelled.
“No! Emotions are your weakness. If you have so much damned emotion, then you shouldn’t have a job here!” For a moment there was silence, anger hovering in the air, and Strauss and Griffin stared each other down, waiting for the other to make a move. Without a breath, Strauss stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Sanders was already waiting at the front door, and seemed glad to finally see Strauss. “We’re going to question Swanson’s ex-wife, Helen Porter,” Sanders informed him as he followed Strauss out the door. They walked over to a police car, Sanders unlocking it and occupying the driver’s seat. Strauss settled down into the seat next to him, and Sanders drove out onto the street. Cars – half of them taxis – cluttered the roads, and the outside smelled of gasoline. It took about twenty minutes to reach Porter’s house; Strauss occupied himself by reading more of Swanson’s file but, not finding anything mildly interesting, he tossed the file on the dashboard and made small talk with Sanders. As they neared Porter’s house, traffic began to dissolve, and the scenery of skyscrapers, malls, hotels and stadiums disappeared and turned into houses.
“Loumer told me that they found something at Swanson’s apartment,” Strauss said abruptly, looking out the window at a store with flashing green lights. “It belonged to the abductor,” he added. Sanders slowed down as the traffic light in front of them turned red. A moment of silence passed as Sanders waited for Strauss to elaborate. “What might that be?” Sanders asked finally. Strauss kept his gaze out the window, looking at the clouds that were slowly dominating the sunlight.
“A kind of access card,” Strauss answered. “Was there anything on it?” Sanders inquired, letting his foot fall on the gas pedal when the traffic light turned green. “Yeah,” Strauss muttered, taking his eyes away from the window and to Sanders. “RC.” Sanders kept his eyes on the crowded road but his mind was obviously somewhere else. “Then I hope we find his abductor,” he said sincerely, and slowed the car down.
Sanders parked the car on the side of the road and he and Strauss walked up to a relatively small blue house. A beaten up welcome mat lay in front of a brown door with a golden knocker in the center of it. The house had a very small yard, but the grass in it had been very well looked after, and a garden took up a part of it. An old wooden fence, which was beginning to fall apart, separated it from the neighboring houses’ yards.
Ignoring the knocker, Strauss used his fist to pound on the door, and impatiently waited as he heard footsteps hurry around inside. A man who looked like he was in his late 30’s opened the door. He had a slim body and an oval face and was wearing a blue sweater-vest over a blue dress shirt. “Frank Porter?” Sanders asked. “Yes…” the man answered a little hesitantly. Sanders showed him his police badge. “We’d like to ask your wife a few questions.”
“Why…” Porter said, hesitating. “Her ex-husband was kidnapped last night,” Strauss said. For a brief moment Porter looked frightened, and then he calmed himself and stepped aside, gesturing for Strauss and Sanders to come into the house. The lights were dim, making the endless ornaments – most that seemed to be vacation souvenirs – that were placed neatly on shelves and counters up against the wall fade away, seem shapeless, their bodies mixing with the dim light. Dark blue carpets covered the wooden floor and a smell of fresh, homemade food wafted through the air. Porter led them to the kitchen, where there was a dark-haired woman wearing an apron over her slacks, bent over a steaming pot resting on the stove.
“Helen,” Mr. Porter said, causing her to look up from the pot and see the two detectives. She cast a confused glance at her husband.
“Mrs. Porter, I’m Detective Sanders and this is Detective Strauss,” Sanders said, answering her unasked question. Your ex-husband, Jack Swanson, went missing last night and there are signs of a struggle.” Mrs. Porter gave the same frightened look her husband had had, but it lasted longer. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Strauss asked a bit accusingly. “What are you implying Detective?” Helen inquired, and Strauss regretted using his tone. Before he could come up with an answer, though, the substance inside the pot started boiling, bubbles spilling over the edge, making a hissing sound when they hit the stove. Helen immediately turned a switch, and the bubbles sank back down. “We were just wondering if you know who might have done this,” Sanders said, trying to be polite. “I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” she said.
“Do you know what RC stands for?” Strauss asked anxiously. “Hmmm” Helen said, thinking. “Sounds familiar but…but I can’t just place it.”
Strauss swore under his breath. “Why do you ask?” Helen asked.
“There was a card found in Mr. Swanson’s apartment,” Sanders began to explain. “We think it’s a sort of access card – it has ‘RC’ on it, and there’s a spiral behind the letters, like an insignia.” Strauss glanced at Frank, who was still listening to the conversation. “How about you, Mr. Porter?” Strauss inquired.
“I never heard of an RC,” he said, making too much of an effort to sound honest. Strauss and Sanders turned their attention back to Helen.
“So…” Sanders began. “You have heard of RC?”
“I’m sorry, I think so. It rings a bell but I just can’t place it.” Strauss bit his lip. “Well, if you remember…” Sanders said, taking a card out of his pocket and handing it to Helen. “Give us a call.” Helen looked down at the card, which had Sanders’ name and phone number on it. “I will,” she said, looking back up at Strauss and Sanders.
The police station was still swarmed with people, officers and citizens alike, rushing through the crowded halls. On the fourth floor, Detective Karen Reilly was shuffling through a stack of papers on her desk. In all honesty, Reilly didn’t find anything on the paper very interesting or a use of a time, so she glanced around at the other officers, criticizing them in her own mind. The loud clanging of the elevator doors as they opened caught Reilly’s attention, and she switched her sights to four men walking out of it. Griffin came out first, and Reilly let the paper slip out of her hand on to the desk. She jumped hurriedly out of her chair and, nearly knocking over an elderly man, ran to Griffin, stopping right in front of him.
Griffin gave her a bemused look. “’Cuse me.”
“You’re nine days overdue,” Reilly said, her arms crossed.
Griffin kept a bemused expression on his face, his mustache scrunching up. “’Cuse me,” he repeated. “I have work to do.” Griffin stepped to the left to walk around Reilly, but she mirrored him, blocking his way again. “I want my money,” she hissed.
“You’ll get your paycheck at the end of the week,” Griffin said, making a show of sighing and rolling his eyes.
“I’m not talking about the paycheck.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Griffin asked, his voice becoming exasperated. Reilly leaned closer to him, saying her next words almost under her breath. “You know what I mean. Our little business. I stalk people and kill people and you pay me extra – “
Griffin let out a loud laugh. “I’ve already got a hitman,” he said, a grin still dominating his face. Stepping right this time, he quickly rushed away from Reilly, who was briefly frozen in a state of anger. It quickly subsided, though, and she began following Griffin.
“Do you want something?” Griffin said suddenly, stopping to face her. Karen glared at him. “What makes you think that I won’t tell everyone about what you’re doin’?”
“No one will believe you. You’ve got no proof – and you don’t even know what I’m doin’ anyways.”
“Oh, yeah, I do,” Reilly said smugly, her response obviously surprising Griffin. “Did you really think I wouldn’t do some…investigating?” Griffin’s face hardened now. “Why don’t we talk about this somewhere more private?” he suggested.
“Oh that’s alright, I’m done talking; you can give the money to me by the end of the day.”
“What if I just kill you?” Griffin threatened.
“That doesn’t seem to be in the interest of a police captain – besides, I’m not the only one who knows. And if I disappear, the public will find out about you.” It was Griffin’s turn to glare. “I’ll have it ready,” he said gruffly, and walked out of Reilly’s sight.
Reilly could now see Strauss and Sanders walking out of the elevator, back already. They were in an intense conversation, as far as she could tell.
“So we’re just supposed to forget about this?” Strauss said to Sanders angrily.
“It’s a dead end, Strauss,” Sanders replied.
“It’s not a dead end. How ‘bout we research this Swanson guy?”
“Already done. No one found anything to suggest why he was kidnapped.”
Sanders sat down in a chair, grabbing a water bottle on his desk and eagerly washing it down his throat. “There are enough people working on it. There are other crimes besides the disappearance of Swanson and your wife” – Sanders addressed Strauss’ wife carefully, not wanting to rise Strauss’ level of anger – “and we’ve been assigned to them.” Strauss just grunted, reluctantly deciding to agree with Sanders – for now, anyways.
“That woman better try to rack her brains,” Strauss muttered, thinking of Helen. If she did remember what RC was, there was a little sliver of hope that Strauss could find Emily. Strauss spent the rest of the day on a murder case, but his mind was still wrapped around the RC card. There were lots of things the police had speculated RC stood for; Renaissance College, Robert College, Remand Centre (a jail in the UK), Resistance Council of Uganda, even the Roman Catholic Church. But all those, like Swanson’s case, had been dead ends.
Several hours passed; clouds began inching over the sun and by the evening, a rainstorm was dropping over all of New York City. The heavy rain had subsided to a drizzle by the time the moon was in the sky, helping Strauss along the sidewalk back to his car. Sanders had left a half hour earlier than Strauss, who had stayed behind to confirm that Swanson was indeed a dead end. They had matched the two “RC” cards, and they were exactly the same as far as the police could tell. Like the one found when Emily went missing, the new card had no fingerprints on it, and nothing to suggest it had ever been in contact with a human before.
As Strauss shifted into the seat of his car, he brushed the rain out of his hair and face, and put his key in the ignition. His head was full of thoughts about Emily; he was so desperate to find her, but no one else seemed to be taking an interest. Strauss started to look out the rear window to see if there were any cars blocking his path, but a ring from his cellphone distracted him. He flipped it open and checked the ID of the caller: Sanders.
“Strauss, I got good news,” Sanders said, his voice sounding stale. He coughed twice into the phone.
“Helen Porter called,” he continued. “She just called me. She remembers what RC is.”

Chapter 3

Cross moved swiftly – some could describe it as leaping – to the book and grabbed it from the shelf. The book next to it fell to the floor from the effect. The noise caused Anderson and Wilson to turn around. “What’s that?” Wilson asked curiously, walking towards him. Cross was now looking at the shiny black cover of the thick book. The cover was made out of a material he couldn’t quite distinguish, but it was smooth and rough at the same time.
Cross slowly opened it to the first of many sandpapery pages and found large, neat handwritten block letters sprawled over the page.
GO TO END OF HALL TURN LEFT
GO THRU GYM, KITCHEN
TAKE STAIRWAY GO TO FLOOR 2
GO INTO BEDROOM
OPEN DRESSER
U R BEING WATCHED; DO NOT DISCUSS THIS

By now Wilson was leaning over Cross’ shoulder to read it, but Anderson had continued walking down the corridor. Cross eagerly flipped the page, hoping for more information, so he was incredibly disappointed when all he saw in front of him was a blank white page. He eagerly flipped to the next page. Blank again. Cross started strumming quickly through the blank pages and finally got to the end, which was decorated with six pictures. All of them had X’s in red marker drawn through them. The same kind of block letters, but this time much smaller, were written across the middle of the page.

IF U TRUST THE WRONG PERSON, U WILL DIE

Cross and Wilson lifted their heads up to look at each other simultaneously, as if suspecting the other as the untrustworthy person the words referred to. Wilson then changed her sight to Anderson, who looked like a blur to her. “Hey, I think you wanna see this!” Wilson said loudly, though not quite shouting. Not budging from her spot, Anderson replied in a voice deep with curiosity. “I think you might wanna see this.” Drawn by her curious voice, their interest sparked and they both walked towards her, the mysterious book held by Cross.
It took about twenty seconds before they could see what Anderson was shocked by. They had reached the end of the hall; a lightbulb showed that the line of bookcases ended a few feet away from the end, and to the left was the way to another part of the maze: a very skinny hallway which went as far on as could be seen. But it wasn’t what Cross, Anderson and Wilson were staring at with perplexed, wide eyes. What they were looking at was the wall marking the end of the hallway. Unlike the other walls, it wasn’t made out of olden planks, but rather newly made and polished steel.
“Vault,” Cross said blankly, obviously referring to the vault that covered the entire wall. It was colored a gleaming light silver, bordered by dark gray paint. The vault covered half of the wall, centered in the middle of it. A device in the center of the vault reminded Cross of his locker’s combination lock in high school, although it was much more complex.

Swanson, Maurice and Sarah were still walking the other direction and their trek was less eventful then the others’. They had walked in the same uncomfortable silence, except for a conversation involving Swanson calming Sarah’s fears for her family. Maurice seemed to be debating the recent events with himself, not bothering to share his thoughts with the others, and every once in a while he would pick up the book tucked under his arm and skim through the pages, trying to find an exceptionally interesting chapter.
After about ten minutes – although not all of it was walking; Sarah had stopped to lean her face against a bookshelf and weep, praying for her husband and children – they had finally reached the end. They were all heavily disappointed when all they saw was a blank, wooden wall.
“Nothing’s here,” Sarah stated bluntly.
“What do you mean?” Maurice said in his sarcastic voice, “There are these beautiful walls – decorated with nails hangin’ out from the floors, I bet just so we could step on ‘em – and –“ he motioned towards a bookshelf with his arms, “all these wonderful history books.”
Swanson casted a cold glance at Maurice, and continued walking to the wall. “What you gonna do now?” Maurice said. “Phase through like a –“
“Shut up,” Swanson interrupted, and continued walking, faster now, and reached the end. While he bent over, Sarah joined him; Maurice decided to look through the book again. Noticing Swanson held something in his hand; Sarah asked “what’s that?” Instead of answering her questions with words, Swanson opened his hand to reveal a cellphone.
It was a shiny black RAZR, with a spotless and smooth surface. Please, God, work, Swanson thought, and began to open it up when a beeping sound illuminated from the phone. Maurice’s gaze instantly shot to Swanson and Sarah, while they stared at the phone, lost for words. “Who the hell is calling?” Sarah said finally, as the phone beeped a third time. “I guess we’ll find out,” Swanson replied, and he opened up the phone.

Strauss was now wide eyed and listening intensely. “What is RC?” Strauss asked anxiously, his breathing heavy. Maybe he would finally be getting some answers.
“She won’t talk about it over the phone. I’m goin’ to her house now.”
“Why not talk about it over the phone?” Strauss said, using Sanders as a bouncing board for his thoughts.
“I don’t know. She seemed kinda nervous.” Sanders coughed again, which was followed by a sneeze this time. Strauss stared out at the drizzling rain, starting to come down faster, pounding on his windshield
“I’ll meet you there.” Strauss slammed his foot on the pedal and quickly maneuvered his way out of the parking lot.
“Guess I’ll see you soon,” Sanders said, still coughing. Strauss hung up his phone and let it fall on the neighboring seat, turning his windshield wipers on as the rain became heavier.
Griffin looked out the fourth-story window at the rain; the windows becoming steamed by the raindrops. As he was watching the rain, he picked up a phone from an empty test and dialed a number on it. It rang three times.
“Chloe Moore, RC,” the voice of a young woman said on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Chloe, it’s Jay Griffin.” There was a brief moment of silence.
“This better be urgent,” the woman said finally.
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna need the file of Karen Reilly; detective from NYCPD.”
“The whole file?”
“Yeah, Chloe, the whole file.” There was another moment of silence.
“You can’t have access to that kind of information.”
“Just give me her…records. For the past few days. And a list of people she has close relationships with.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Moore hung up the phone.
Sanders parked his car by the yard of the Porters’ house, walking quickly to the front door and knocking twice.
“Be right there!” Helen’s voice called from the inside, and Sanders heard footsteps. Helen hurriedly flung open the door, her face expressing anguish. She gestured for Sanders to come inside, out of the dreary rainstorm. Shutting the door behind him, Sanders wiped his muddy shoes on the floor and followed Helen to the kitchen. All the lights were on now, so that Sanders could make out the shape of all the Porters’ figurines and items that lay on the shelves.
“Randall Corporation,” Helen blurted out.
“What’s the Randall Corporation?” Sanders pondered, and it sounded like he was thinking out loud instead of asking Helen a question.
“A few months before we got divorced, Jack was offered a job with Gallagher Architects. They told him that they were impressed with his…unique architectural skills. They liked his style, his touch. They offered him a high salary, even a house at one point –“
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter,” Sanders interrupted. “But what does this have to do with the Randall Corporation?”
“Right, of course. They were owned by the Randall Corporation.”
“And Jack didn’t take the job?” Sanders asked after thinking to himself for a moment. But the answer to that question would have to wait, as the words clogged up in Helen’s throat when they both heard a loud shattering of glass.
“Stay here,” Sanders whispered, drawing a handgun from his waist holster. He crept slowly through the hallway, heading towards the living room, being careful to keep his footsteps quiet. Sanders slowly peered into the living room with one eye, but could only make out a couch in the darkness. The one room that’s lights aren’t on, he thought. Putting his finger on the trigger, Sanders’ eye swept over the room, looking for any shapes resembling a human.
Creak. A short, sudden creak caused Sanders’ eyes to target the source; he could see a fuzzy outline of a leg next to the couch. Taking a step into the living room, he aimed his gun at the foot.
“Come out now!” Sanders said loudly, his finger preparing to press down on the trigger.
A figure slowly stood up behind the couch, raising his hands up.
“You got here fast, Pete,” said a voice. There was such perfect calmness in the voice that Sanders was annoyed.
“Who the hell are you?” Sanders shouted, trying to make out the face of the mysterious figure.
“Aaron Burr. I work for a corporation that likes their privacy, so, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time Detective Strauss snapped and killed you and Mrs. Porter, and then, finally, put the gun to his own head. Well, that’s what everyone will think.”
“Walk over to me,” Sanders commanded, not lowering his aim.
“Maybe you don’t have to die. How would you like to be a federal agent along with the rest of us? Our corporation includes housing, meals –“
“Shut the hell up and get your ass over here!” Sanders shouted.
Bang! A shot rang out and Sanders felt blood flowing out of his back, and a searing pain as a bullet forced its way into his back. Unable to stand, Sanders tumbled over on his stomach, his eyelids shutting closed.
“One time in the head should do it,” Burr said to the man who had just shot Sanders. Burr walked over to him.
“Where’s the woman?”
“Handcuffed to the table,” the other man said in a thick British accent, as he raised the gun again and aimed it at Sanders’ head.
“Drop it!” Strauss had arrived and snuck through the door – Helen hadn’t locked it. He held a gun in each hand, one pointed at the British man, and the other at Burr.
“Run!” Burr yelled. His voice wasn’t calm anymore. Burr raised his gun at Strauss, but Strauss was quicker, and he sent two bullets through Burr’s chest. The British man had jumped over Sanders and made it to the center of the living room, but due to the darkness tripped over the couch, causing him to summersault across the floor.
“Don’t move!” Strauss shouted at the man, who was now lying facedown on the floor. Strauss began walking slowly to him, his gun aimed at the man’s head.
“Is there anyone else?” he questioned.
“Like I’d tell you if there were.”
Strauss could make out the man’s olive-shaped head, layered with thin gray hair that was slowly balding. He wore a black leather jacket and had another gun on an ankle holster.
“Slide the gun away.”
The man followed Strauss’ command, pushing his handgun across the floor with his hand. Strauss had reached where he lay, and bent down to take the other gun from his ankle holster. Tucking it in his suit pocket, Strauss finished formulating what he was going to do next in his head.
“Get up!” he said, not shouting this time. The man obeyed again, slowly standing up.
“Put your hands above your head,” Strauss said, his gun still aimed at the British man’s head.
“Walk to the kitchen.” Strauss followed the man, inching the gun closer to his head every step. Strauss found an unconscious Sanders lying on the ground, more blood leaking out of his back every second. Handcuffed to a leg of the dining table was Helen, whose eyes were full of fear.
“Where are the keys?” Strauss growled.
“Right jacket pocket,” the man said.
Strauss reached into the man’s leather jacket pocket, pulling out a silver key. He tossed the key over to Helen.
“Get those cuffs off and check their pulses. If they have any.” Strauss said grimly. His gun hadn’t moved from its target.
“Get outside,” Strauss told the man.
“What’s your name anyway?” he inquired.
“Tom,” was all the response Strauss received.
“Well Tom,” Strauss continued, now following him out the front door. “You’re going to get in that police car, and once my partner is taken care of, we’re going to have a talk.”
Strauss pulled a key out of his pocket and pressed a button. A noise came from the car, and Strauss opened the back door and gestured for Tom to go in.
“Doors lock automatically and the windows are bulletproof – so I don’t think you’ll be taking stroll around town tonight.”
Tom climbed in and sat on the blue-cushioned seat, leaning his head back against the back of the seat and letting out a large breath of air. Strauss slammed the door and ran back into the house.
“Your partner’s alive but the other man is not,” Helen informed him.
Strauss had already yanked his cellphone from his pocket and was dialing the police station.
“Officer down! I need an ambulance NOW! 47 Cranberry Street Manhattan!” he shouted into it. Helen heard a voice say something on the other line, and then Strauss put the cellphone back into his pocket.
“What do we do now?” Helen asked quietly.
“We wait,” Strauss replied, kneeling over to check on his dying partner.

Chapter 4: Letters and Numbers

It’s unbelievable; the things someone would do
To protect things; old and new
Five years in prison they still wouldn’t crack
Nor would they when tied to a railroad track
Just a few letters and numbers
They’d rather go into a permanent slumber
Then tell…
So they curl up in a shell
Refuse to say a word
Some think it’s absurd
To get yourself in a trouble spur
For a few letters and numbers

“I just want to know the password. Just a few letters and numbers. That’s all. Is a few letters and numbers worth a life in prison?”
Eric Hanson paced around the dingy, small room. The black paint was starting to roll off the walls, while it had abandoned most of the now brown wood door. Cobwebs covered the rusty pipes crusted into the corners of the room, which every so often a drip of water escaped from. The room had a musty smell, almost like fish, which Hanson scrunched his nose at every time he walked in the room. The small rectangular room was empty, but a table that had been there before had left legs marks in the floor’s paint.
A man sat on the floor, leaning on the wall. His face was bloody and bruised, while his moon-colored shirt had been torn in several places. His long black hair was messy, swirled crazily around his head like a turban. A cut had been embedded through his cheek and another one on his chin. Stubble was beginning to turn to a beard, covering the scar. A permanent grim expression had been placed on his face; his eyes fixated on the floor, and his thick lips cemented into a big frown.
“And what about your daughter?” Eric Hanson continued. He looked like the opposite of the other man in the room, his smile was taunting, as if he had just achieved something astonishing. One could also see a hint of secrecy in it, like he was laughing privately at his own inside joke. The only mark on his face was a large bruise above his skinny, black eyebrows, and he wore a black suit and matching pants, with a black tie and white dress shirt under it. Every so often he would grab the suit and shrug it back into its proper place, as if he were worried it would slip off if he didn’t. His body was skinny; being mostly made up of muscles, especially his arms and legs, which he had given extra workout treatment to. The smug smile never faltered as he walked slowly back and forth in the room, his shoes echoing each time they hit the floor. They were startlingly clean, even for shoes, like they had never been worn. But some people did suspect Hanson bought new shoes for every week – maybe every day – he was obsessed with looking proper and cleanliness, and his bank account looked like it belonged to the creators of Google, not a man who devoted his time to sorting out money for the state of New York.
Well, that’s what the people who weren’t involved with the Company thought. His coworkers; fellow employees knew the truth: he was the leader of a team that hunted down people who defected from the Company, or any employee whose faith in the Company was degrading.
“What? Not in a chatty mood today?” Hanson said. His voice was sarcastic and smug, fitting in with his facial expression.
“Not really,” the man mumbled, his voice rough like a heavy smoker.
“Well you don’t have to say much. Just a few letters and numbers”
The man closed his eyes, mumbling something under his breath.
“Noah? You still with me?” Hanson asked. Noah ignored him, continuing with his mumbling. Hanson gave him a look, his eyes ready to roll. Hanson took a cellphone from his pants pocket and flipped it open. Noah looked up to see him dialing a number.
“Hello Owen. Mr. Parker and I are done here.” Hanson smiled a broader smile now, still taunting.
“You will be transported to a maximum security prison in Washington, D.C.,” Hanson said.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Last chance Noah!” Hanson threatened, squatting to meet Noah’s eyes.
“I am begging you, tell me the password. And this will all be over.”
“We both know that’s not true. Once you’re involved with this – this – this organization…you’ll never be free.”
“Well…at least you won’t be in prison.”
“Once you know the password…you’ll be in a load of trouble.”
“You think I haven’t planned this all out, Mr. Parker? I have spent –“
Noah would never know what Hanson spent, because they were interrupted by four men who marched into the room.
“Your daughter will be put in –“
“YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND! ONCE YOU GO THERE... YOU LOSE EVERYTHING.”
“You might have made that mistake,” Hanson said, “but I will not.” Hanson then turned to face one of the men.
“Take him away,” he said simply, and walked out, shrugging his suit back into place one more. The hallway outside of the room seemed eerily empty, its floors, walls and ceiling spotless and shining clean. Every light was placed the same length away from each other, and they all let off the exact same amount of light. The floors and walls were tiled, some dark blue and some a slightly lighter blue. The ceiling was covered in sky blue paint, which melted into the tiles on top the walls. Looking around cautiously, Hanson went through a large door that led to his office.
Everything was very orderly; files in the room had put in vanilla file cabinets, in which they were sorted alphabetically. Placed sideways to a large rectangular window was Hanson’s desk, which had two pens, a book, a computer and a few sheets of paper on it. A circular rug covered the rest of the floor, and on top of it was a square wooden table, with a chair on each side. Hanson sat down in his comfortable leather chair, leaning back to enjoy the full relaxation effect. After about half a minute, he leaned back upright and slid open a drawer on his desk. Pushing aside many papers, he grabbed a black cellphone, flipped it open and dialed a number.
“Hello?!” Swanson’s voice called anxiously at the other end.
“Mr. Swanson, I’m sure you’re scared, but you have to trust me,” Hanson said in a soothing voice. Swanson wasn’t soothed at all though.
“Who are you?” Swanson asked, his voice not knowing to edge over to anger, fear or relief.
“Who I am is not important. But who I work for is. They want to keep you in that place, but I want you to get out, and am willing to help you.”
“How?” Swanson’s voice was skeptical now, but eager to hear more.
“They’re watching your every move. Almost every inch of that place can be seen by surveillance cameras.”
Swanson looked up at the roof, trying to spot one.
“They hide them pretty good, and I wouldn’t go searching for them if I didn’t want to compromise your rescue.”
“Don’t they see us now? Talking to you?” Swanson asked, his skepticism becoming more powerful.
“I said almost every inch can be seen. There are three places that can’t; the very end of this hallway, for one.”
“What are the others?”
“You want to go to the other end of the hallway. There you can go right, you’ll be lead to a gym, then walk through it and you’ll find a kitchen.”
“Is this some cheap home makeover reality TV show or somethin’” Swanson growled.
“Some of my former coworkers lived down there,” Hanson explained. “Now, as I was saying –“
Hanson had been so concentrated on the phone call he hadn’t noticed two light taps on his door, followed by someone opening it.
“I’ll call you right back,” Hanson said hurriedly, quickly closing the phone.
“Good morning sir,” Hanson said politely, slipping the cellphone back into the drawer.
Closing the door behind him, Joshua Randall walked slowly towards Hanson, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. His face was full of seriousness and, according to some, grimness, as it always was. The head of the Randall Corporation bit his lip.
“Who was that?”
“Personal,” Hanson said, a little defensively.
“Right.” Randall took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together.
“Is there something you wanted Sir?” Hanson asked after a moment of silence.
“Yeah, sorry. I... I need you to find out the address and any prominent friends and family of Phillip Lincoln.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you, Eric.”
Hanson pushed the power button on his computer, watching as Randall walked out. As soon as the door was shut, Hanson pulled the drawer open and hit “redial” on the cellphone. After just one ring, Swanson picked up.
“What the hell is going on?” Swanson demanded.
“Hey, you just got to trust me alright. Remember the gym and the kitchen?”
“Yeah..” Swanson said after a short pause.
“There’s a stairway near it. Go up the stairs and you’ll see a bedroom. There’s a dresser next to the bed. Open the middle drawer of the dresser and you will find a journal. Open it to the third page. There are instructions.”
“Why can’t you just tell me to them now?” Swanson said, half-angrily, half-desperately.
“I don’t have time and there’s a big risk of me getting caught. You can absolutely not talk about this; the cameras have microphones too. And stay in the same spot when reading the journal; at the dresser, by the bed. Or they’ll see you. I have to go. Best of luck.”
“Wait! Wait! Swanson said hopelessly, though Hanson had already hung up.
“You get anchovies on that pizza?” Maurice said.
“Who was it?” Sarah asked, her voice topping Maurice’s.
“I…don’t know.” Swanson closed the phone and moaned silently.
“He said he wanted to help us escape... he said that there’s a bedroom…we need to go there.”
“Why? And how can we trust him?” Maurice questioned.
Ignoring him again, Swanson opened the phone and dialed 9-1-1. No reception.
“Dammit. No reception.”
“Then how’d he call us?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know,” Swanson repeated.
“Let’s go catch up with the others,” he continued, tucking the phone into his pocket.
“We can’t talk about this. We’re being monitored everywhere except the bedroom and the end of the hallway.”
“Monitored by whom?” Maurice asked.
“The aliens.” Swanson gave him an exasperated look. “I DO NOT know.”
“What planet are they from?” Maurice teased.
Swanson just replied with a fierce glare.

“Smells like burnt pudding,” Strauss complained.
“It’s a hospital, not a perfume parlor,” Sanders said, heaving a sigh. Sanders was lying down on a stretcher, his bulky arms stretched out across the edges. Strauss had pulled a chair up next to Sanders’ stretcher. The hospital room was full of the smell of medicine, which Strauss frequently wrinkled his nose at.
“Is Winterson talking yet?” Sanders asked. Tom Winterson was the man who had shot him in the back the night before.
“We get more information from rocks,” Strauss answered bitterly, looking out the window at the rising sun, which was creating a glare in the room.
“What about Porter? Did she give us anything useful?”
“She might’ve.” Strauss yawned.
“The Randall Corporation owns three architect firms, one in New York, one in Wisconsin and the other’s in Maine; the Poiro Curb firm, Wisconsin Architects and Gallagher Architects, who offered Swanson a job. They also own a construction company, two car manufacturing companies, a taxi company and their own film, publishing and newspaper businesses.”
“Who… are they?” Sanders said, putting it as simply as he could.
“A huge corporation which also has ties with the government - that owns all these business and is apparently looking out for the future of our planet.”
“But you don’t believe them?” Sanders questioned.
“I don’t know what to believe,” Strauss said, rubbing his face in his hands.
“I don’t know if this is another dead end…or if I’m finally getting closer to finding—“ Strauss choked up when he thought of Emily’s name “—her,” he finished simply.
“Well Andrew…whatever it was…people are willing to kill to hide it. So…there is definitely something big going on here.”
Each of them sat for a moment in silence, until it was interrupted by the buzzing of Strauss’ cellphone.
“Hello,” Strauss said into it.
“Alright.” Strauss hung up the phone and squeezed his eyes shut, then taking a big yawn.
“That was Loumer. Winterson agreed to talk – but only to me.”
“Why might that be?”
“I guess I’ll find out,” Strauss said as he heaved himself out of the chair. Only now did he realize how tired he felt.
“Good luck,” Sanders said. Strauss just nodded and smiled a little.
“You too,” he replied as he began to walk out. Sanders chuckled.
“Don’t worry about me Andrew – I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah…of course you will.”

“What do you think is in there?” Cross was feeling the vault with his fingers. The texture was almost as smooth as air, the gray paint never failing to falter; no chunks, no chipped paint. It didn’t remind Cross of his locker anymore.
Cross, Anderson and Wilson had tried opening the lock – but it literally didn’t budge a centimeter.
“A way out?” Anderson suggested.
“We’re obviously not getting through this, so why don’t we go where the book told us to go?” Wilson pondered out loud.
“There could be a flaw – even the tiniest little flaw could bring one big project down. One loose screw and this whole thing could be a cluster of dust,” Cross said, still feeling the vault.
“But I doubt this has a single flaw,” he added, disappointed as he looked hopelessly for any break in the vault’s perfection.
“There’s always a flaw. Nothing’s perfect,” Rachel said.
“If it was perfect, it wouldn’t be perfect,” Cross said, smiling.
“If it was perfect for us…it would have a flaw…so we could get out.”
“We still don’t know what’s in there. It could be bad,” Wilson pointed out.
“That’s a valid point,” Cross said to himself, picking up the mysterious “READ ME” book from the floor. He nodded towards the skinny hallway.
“Ladies first.”
Wilson took the lead, walking swiftly to the hallway. It was much skinnier then the other hallway; they could barely fit through it. Like the other hallway, it was made of old wood, and nails were hanging out of it. Anderson followed second, with Cross behind, walking sideways to have more room. It was relatively short; after about half a minute they stepped out into a room filled with exercise equipment.
Treadmills, Ellipticals, exercise bikes, steppers, weights and barbells were arranged neatly, all the different kinds of exercise equipment separated. The floor was covered with a puke green rug, and five lights lit up the room, making the obviously recently cleaned machines sparkle.
Three treadmills were lined up against the olive green wall, and lined up against the opposite wall were three exercise bikes. Two steppers were lined up next to the treadmills, while a pile of weights and barbells nested near a corner.
“Where the hell are we?” Cross said, speaking aloud everyone’s thoughts.
“So are we going to find the kitchen?” Wilson asked.
“What? What kitchen?” Anderson asked them. Cross opened up the book and handed it to her.
“We found this on a bookshelf. I have no idea what it means… obviously,” Cross muttered.
Anderson read it slowly through three times. Handing it back to Strauss, she scrunched up her forehead. She always did that when she was thinking.
“What about the rest of the pages?” she asked, remembering to check them a little too late.
“All blank,” Cross said, glancing at Wilson, as if warning her not to tell Anderson what was in the back of the book.
“Have you ever read that book Maze?” Cross asked Anderson suddenly.
“No,” Anderson said, unsure of where the conversation was going.
“Ten people participate in a scavenger hunt in a humungous mansion, where they all get lost – in the maze. There are clues hidden in the library’s books, and the gym is where the last item of the hunt is…” Cross trailed off.
“I loved to read it when I was a kid.”
“So you think a fanatic put us here to participate in a scavenger hunt?” Anderson chuckled.
“Tell me your theory,” Cross said smugly, holding in a yawn.
“It’s a dream.”
“Well it can’t be my dream; my dreams never make any sense.”
“And this does?”
“More sense then having a canoe race over a rainbow to get a prize of a chocolate covered monkey.” Anderson chuckled again.
“I thought I had weird dreams but you got me beat there.”
“Oh, that’s not my best –“
“Found the kitchen,” Wilson interrupted, standing in a doorway at the other end of the exercise room. The wall and door on this side were all glass, sparkling clean like the equipment. It seemed like she had hardly finished talking before Cross and Anderson were standing beside her, ready to investigate.
“What if it’s dangerous?” Anderson asked.
“No need to worry, in my dreams, I’m a ninja.” Cross smiled. Anderson smiled back, but Wilson just gave him a puzzled look.

“Fourth? No, it’s the third,” Swanson insisted.
“It is February third, 2008, genius,” Maurice said.
“Yeah,” Sarah agreed.
“So I was unconscious for a whole day?” Swanson said.
“Yup,” Maurice said cheerily.
“Why’d they kidnap me a day before you?”
“Because I’m annoying,” Maurice said.
“Really?” Swanson sneered.
“I know. You can never tell.”
Swanson, Maurice and Sarah had reached the end of the hallway now, their eyes now fixated on the big vault.
“What…the…” Maurice began.

Chapter 5

“Mr. Winterson, you wanted to see me?” Strauss greeted, sitting down in a chair facing Tom Winterson, a table between them. They sat in an interrogation room inside the police station. Another officer stood in the corner, watching Winterson intently.
“Yeah…I wanted to see you…” Winterson threw a look at the other officer. “Alone,” he finished.
Strauss looked behind him at the officer.
“Could we have some privacy please?” Strauss asked him. The officer – a bit reluctantly – nodded and walked out, closing the door behind him, which made a thud. Winterson leaned over to Strauss, a motion which Strauss mirrored.
“Your wife is still alive,” Winterson said bluntly. Surprised, Strauss fell back into the chair.
“I assume you want to find her,” Winterson said, a smirk beginning to crawl onto his face.
“I’m listening,” Strauss said silently as he leaned forward again.
“I know where she is.” A pause ensued.
“Where,” Strauss said flatly.
“Oh no, not so fast. You see, I want something too.” The smirk had fully grown on Winterson’s face now.
“Immunity.”
Strauss let out an aggravated sigh.
“Why did you want to talk to me?”
“Because you’re desperate – and I know that you’ll do anything it takes to get her back – even if it means I ‘escape’ from your custody…” Winterson let the thought hang in the air for a moment.
“And then what? This RC keeps on going around – who the hell are you people?”
“That’s not part of the deal,” Winterson said.
“It is now,” Strauss said angrily.
“You are going to tell me everything about the Randall Corporation. You are going to tell me what happened to my wife, why and where the hell she is.”
Winterson shook his head.
“No, no, no. If I told you that I would be in a heap of trouble, you see.”
“You really think I give a damn about you?” Strauss said fiercely, his eyes in a menacing look.
“No. But you do give a damn about Emily.” Winterson’s smirk had been replaced with a thoughtful face. Drumming his hands on the table, Strauss clicked his tongue.
“This is happening on my terms.”
“Oh, come on Detective, what’s more important; the rule book or your wife? Personally, I would have chosen my wife –“
“Be quiet,” Strauss interrupted.
“Now, what’s more important to you; freedom or protecting your coworkers?”
“I’m not just protecting my coworkers –“
“Then who or what are you protecting?!”
“The RC.”
Strauss stared at him, holding back the urge to say something incoherent.
“Randall Corporation?”
“What about it?”
“Is that what RC stands for?”
“RC stands for a lot of things…recycling center, runaway cat, Renaissance College – my friend went there.”
“WHO DO YOU WORK FOR!?!” Strauss growled loudly.
“RC-“
“YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! NOT THE INITIALS! THE FULL NAME!”
“Someone has a temper –“
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
“Then how can I answer your question?”
“Answer it and then shut the hell up!”
“Randall Corporation. I work for the Randall Corporation. Are you happy?”
“Not yet,” Strauss muttered, standing up.
“Where you going?” Strauss glared back at Winterson.
“Telling you that isn’t part of the deal,” he said mockingly.
“Have fun in prison,” Strauss said sarcastically, opening the door.
“Carlson Bank, 414 Fifth Street, Manhattan,” Winterson said. Strauss paused, the doorknob still clutched tightly in his hands. He raised his eyebrow.
“You’re trying to buy me out?” he asked bitterly.
“No, Detective, I’m not. There’s a safety deposit box there. And in that safety deposit box is information…”
Strauss walked hesitantly back over to the table.
“About what?”
“It will help you find your wife.”
“Why can’t you just tell me?”
“Because I don’t know exactly where she is!” Winterson replied.
“Well then, where’s your key?”
“Your buddies confiscated it,” Winterson said.
Strauss headed for the door again.
“What’s the box number?”
“I’ll tell you…when we get to the bank.” Winterson’s smirk had returned. Strauss threw his face against the door.
“Then I’ll ‘escape.’”
“We’ll see about that,” Strauss said, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Is that a vault? Or is it just for decoration for us lovely guests.”
Cross whirled around when he heard Maurice’s voice. He had been looking in a cupboard occupied by boxes of cereal in the kitchen. Anderson and him had followed Wilson into a room with a table in the center, six chairs placed around it. A white tablecloth with a twisted chain of ivy embroidered on the sides covered it neatly, and in front of each chair there were plates, a napkin and utensils. There was also a counter, which had a sink in it, and cupboards were placed above it. The three had been shifting through them when Swanson, Maurice and Sarah had fell upon the room.
“They put a lot of work into a decoration then,” Cross said, getting over his shock at the sudden voice.
“Did you find anything?” Cross asked.
“No,” Swanson said, biting his lip. Maurice sighed, and Sarah took a deep breath.
“What’s that book?” Wilson asked, looking at the book Maurice still held.
“What’s that book?” Sylver countered, his eyes targeting the “READ ME” book Cross had laid down on the counter.
“See for yourself,” Cross said, gesturing to the book.

“That’s not the plan.”
“Well, Josh, the plan was awful.”
Vic was seated across from Randall in Randall’s office.
“8,274,527 people,” Randall said.
“That’s how many people are in New York City.”
“Good!” Vic shouted, throwing his arms up in a fit of happiness.
“The more people die, the more scared everyone will be!”
“We don’t need more people! 477,377 people live on Staten Island. If that won’t scare everyone what will?”
“I’m not saying that won’t scare everyone, Josh,” Vic said.
“Hell, we could use a small town – a neighborhood even. But that wouldn’t get our point across,” he continued.
“I didn’t call you in here to talk about getting our point across,” Randall snapped.
“I called you in here to make you understand that we don’t have to kill everyone in New York City to make this thing work.”
Vic sighed.
“You knew what you were getting yourself into, Josh. At least I hope so, since you are the head of this organization.”
There was a pause of silence, each man thinking to himself.
“We spread a virus, killing everyone in the city,” Vic continued, “true, Staten Island is a lot of people, but our plan would be surer to go accordingly if we wiped out the entire city of New York.”
“I just want to refrain from unnecessarily killing innocent people,” Randall said defensively.
“And all those people on Staten Island aren’t innocent?” Vic retorted.
“People need to die for this to go forward – for the greater good. But not this many people.”
“More deaths mean more desperation,” Vic said, concluding the conversation by standing up and walking to the doorway.
“Think about it,” he said.

Swanson was reading the book Cross had found, having reread the page with words several times now. He flipped to the next page, as if checking that it was still blank.
“Interesting,” he mumbled to himself, but he said the rest in his head.
“Why don’t we check this place out?’ Swanson said, tossing the book on the counter.
“Sounds good,” Anderson agreed, leading them through a doorway.
On the other side of the doorway was a room, furnished like the gym and kitchen. The floor was covered with a dark blue rug, and a large television sat against the wall, a red couch across from it. Four cushions were on it, and a fluffy pillow leaned against each armrest at the ends.
It had the same eerily dark quality as the hallway; the light sources were dim, and the darkness of the rug seemed like it mixed with the air, making it muddily like a cloudy day.
The group remained in an oval formation, no one getting too far away from their companions.
At the other side of the small room was another doorway, which lead to a room which was much brighter. Many lights were placed on the brown roof and the wall. The room was devoid of furniture, but there were two doorways at the other side, and a big, black, spiraling staircase was in the middle. The fanciness of it made it stand out against the rest of the place.
Everyone wanted the same thing – to get to the upstairs bedroom, but they didn’t want to make it too obvious – they were being watched.
“Maybe some of us should check around here, I’ll go upstairs,” Swanson suggested.
“I’ll come with,” Cross said, walking over to the bottom step.
“Sounds good,” Swanson said quietly, joining Cross.
Their feet made loud echoes on the steps, the echoes bouncing against the walls several times before dying.
“What do you do for a living, Cross, was it?” Swanson asked when they had almost reached the last step.
“I was a… insurance agent,” Cross said, his mind seemingly somewhere else.
“Insurance agent for what?” Swanson inquired as they stepped off the top step, the last echo fading.
“Fires,” Cross answered.
The second floor was a hallway; some rooms with opened doorways leading to them were spread out on either side, but the bedroom directly in Cross’ and Swanson’s line of sight caught their attention.
Cross and Swanson looked at each other, wordless, only agreeing what to do next with their eyes.
They walked uniformly, stepping in unity.
“What about you? What did you do?” Cross asked.
“Structural engineer.”
The bedroom was not unique in appearance in any way; it had the dark aroma of the other rooms, and a bed rested in the corner. A dresser was placed near the bedside, a lamp on top of it, and a door leading to a closet near another corner.
Cross and Swanson wasted no time inspecting other aspects of the room, just walked straight to the dresser. Swanson took a glance around the roof, looking for cameras, even though he suspected they would be hidden very well.
“I lied,” Swanson whispered.
“What?” Cross said.
“We did find something at the end of the hall,” Swanson continued, still whispering.
“What would that be?” Cross asked, now mimicking Swanson’s whispering.
“There was a cellphone on the floor. Some guy called, telling us to go here – to this room, and open the middle draw.”
Cross rubbed his hand across his face.
“What guy?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“What the…” Cross sighed.
“…Is this?” he finished, his voice rising.
“Hopefully we’ll find out,” Swanson said, still whispering, as he nodded toward the dresser.
They wasted no more time conversing as they hurried to the dresser and quickly opened the middle of five drawers. Inside was a sole black, skinny journal, a few wads of dust covering it.
Cross reached in and pulled it out, blowing the dust off onto the floor. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he opened it to the first page. Blank. Cross breathed a breath of disappointment. He flipped the page over, only to find another blank page, and another, and another. But when he opened to the fifth page he finally found writing.
You are put down here because of an experiment. You were injected with a virus to see the effects it would have on people. It is no ordinary virus; rather, depending on some of your physical attributes and blood type, it may kill you, make you very sick, make you almost immortal, or give you “powers” we have only imagined about.

There is a way you can escape. I have the antidote to the virus. In this room’s closet there is a door on the ceiling. There are ladder-like steps on the vertical tunnel beyond it. Climb up it, and you will find yourself in a room full of pipes
Cross flipped the page to continue reading.
I will meet you there, and help you escape, but be warned you may be put in harm’s way, as my colleagues will stop at nothing to make sure this goes according to their plan.
Cross and Swanson shared a look at each other. In desperate need for more information, Cross flipped the page again.
OLIVIA WILSON WORKS FOR MY COWORKERS. SHE IS A SPY.
Cross and Swanson both looked at each other again in shock. Cross skimmed through the rest of the journal, but it was all blank pages.
“We were lying too; in the back of the book I found it said ‘if you trust the wrong person, you will die,’” Cross confessed to Swanson quietly.
“Does Wilson know?” Swanson asked anxiously.
Cross bit his lip.
“Yeah,” he said. Cross flipped to the next page, and then all the ones after that, but they were all blank. Tucking the book under his arm, Cross turned to walk out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
“She could be dangerous!”
“They’re watching us!” Swanson growled, looking up at the ceiling again.
“So what are we supposed to do now?” Cross asked bitterly.
“We need to get everyone in here,” Swanson said, and hurried out of the room.

*****

“What is it for?”
“Winterson said there was information that would help me find my wife,” Strauss replied. Strauss and Officer Brody Davis were leaning over Winterson’s safety deposit box key, which was placed on a table.
“Carlson Bank, 414 Fifth Street. I need to go there. Now.”
“Alright, Charlie, hold on for a few minutes.”
“Why do I have to hold on? I can just get in the car and drive to the bank!”
“We still don’t know what safety deposit box this key unlocks,” Davis pointed out.
“Then we’ll try them all!” Strauss said.
“We can’t do that,” Davis argued.
“Why not?!”
Davis raised an eyebrow.
“That would take too long.”
“You got places to be? Then I’ll go,” Straus said, ending the conversation as he grabbed the key and stomped away.
He hadn’t made it very far when his path was blocked by someone.
“Detective Strauss?” the suited man asked in a French accent. His face looked hard as stone, but when he talked the stone would instantly crumble and turn into a more loose face. His straight black hair fell down to his ears and stuck to his skin as if he had just shampooed it. His blue eyes were darkened by his thick, bushy eyebrows’ shadow, and his nose was long and skinny, not breaking his face’s trend of looking hard as a stone.
“Yeah?” Strauss asked impatiently. He doubted that whatever this man wanted was more important then the bank.
“Jacques Lawrence,” the man introduced, holding out his hand.
“I’ll be working as your partner while Detective Sanders recovers,” Lawrence explained, shaking Strauss’ hand.
“Right…” Strauss said absent-mindedly, suppressing a groan. Why did it have to be now?
“Well, you get yourself settled in,” Strauss said, walking past him.
“Where you off to in such a hurry?” Lawrence asked. Strauss stopped and turned around, his feet ready to resume walking at the next possible second.
“I’m going to find out what happened to a missing person,” he said, and half-turned around.
“Can you use any help? I don’t really feel like organizing my desk right now,” Lawrence said lightly.
“No need, I’ll be back soon.” Before Lawrence could respond, Strauss turned around and began walking towards the door.
“Captain Griffin said to go with you,” Lawrence said loudly, so that Strauss could hear him.
Strauss growled under his breath, his muscles tensing up.
“Well, that’s not what I said.”
“Hey, look, you can always use an extra hand in things,” Lawrence said. Strauss though for a moment.
“Whatever, follow me,” Strauss said, and resumed walking out the door and to a police car.

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