Dire Means Read online

  Pop sat. His head lightened and darkened as he rocked in and out of the light cast on his desk.

  “She’s got fifteen rounds,” he said, nodding to the gun. “If you feel your life is in danger, you won’t need more than two to put me down at this range. I hope you won’t find that to be necessary, however.”

  Mark looked at the gun and then up at Pop. “Look, uh, Pop. I don’t need the gun. I’d just like to leave.”

  Pop eyebrows went up. “But if you leave before hearing my plan, your explanation to the police will be incomplete.”

  “What?” Mark said. “I won’t go to the police.”

  Pop laughed and raked his fingers through the hair on the back of his head a few times. “I’m surprised to hear that from an honorable guest. It’s funny—most of our fodder make the same promise. In fact, Keith Mendalsen repeated that vow again and again as we escorted him to his private suite in the back.” Pop thumbed over his shoulder.

  Mark’s gut tightened at Pop’s confirmation that the missing people were somewhere in the bunker.

  “The truth is, Mark, it makes no difference whether you report us to law enforcement or not. Your role in our mission has been secured by your gracious visit.”

  “What? I-I don’t understand.”

  “Would you indulge me in a little prophecy?”

  Mark nodded—knowing that he really had no choice.

  “Your life’s path is about to fork. One path leads you to your local police station where you will report that Trail Bladers Subterranean Data Destruction, one of Los Angeles’s most respected companies, is responsible for the recent news headlines. When they ask you how, where, and by what means this company does it, you will have no answer.”

  “The other path leads you, with us, to the end of homelessness and poverty. This path includes you as a leader and catalyst in this cause. It includes the creation of a social utopia never seen by any civilization. You can be part of our cause. Choose the wrong path and your regret will be deeper than you can imagine.”

  “You’re extorting me?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see an end to homelessness?”

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “I’ve promised that we won’t harm you, thus, I cannot be extorting you.”

  “I’ll listen to your plan, but I don’t want the gun,” Mark said. He offered the gun to Pop. Pop pointed to his desk and Mark carefully placed the gun on it.

  Pop settled into his seat as if getting ready for a long discussion. “Your refusal to consider the gun proves my accurate judgment of your character.”

  “I couldn’t kill anyone,” Mark said.

  Pop laughed through his nose and leaned forward across his desk. “I admire you. But I’m about to show you how your moral code has some crippling limitations,” Pop said. “Now, I’ll explain our mission. I am eliminating the financial suffering of impoverished people and I have chosen the lovely city of Santa Monica, California as the birthplace of our noble mission.”

  He stood and paced behind his desk. “The benevolence of man is scarce and shrinking. Public shelters—God love ‘em—public service announcements, fundraisers, and all such instruments that rely on the goodness of people haven’t solved, and will never completely solve, the problem of human suffering, even in the most prosperous cities on Earth.” Pop pounded his fist into his hand. “Hoping that altruism will cure impoverishment is like hoping that universal driver courtesy will end auto accidents.”

  Pop paused to look at Mark, waiting for an indication of understanding. Mark nodded.

  Pop continued, “Fear, as opposed to gentle public pleas for adherence to the Golden Rule, is a tremendous motivator. Fear is an infectious motivator that trumps selfishness. Controlled, directed fear is effective and efficient—a marvelous tool. Harnessed properly, it gets results. It succeeds. You can clear a room filled with five tons worth of people with a tiny mouse if its occupants have musophobia. Fear is an investment with a predictable, handsome yield. If properly targeted and managed, fear will compound—growing, spreading, and controlling those dosed with it.” Pop paused again to check on Mark, who was attentive, and had folded his hands to stop their trembling.

  Morana combed her fingers through her long hair like a student who had heard the same lecture to the point of memorization.

  “We have acquired several individuals who have turned out to be exquisite fodder for our purposes. Keith Mendalsen was the first.”

  Mark’s heart began to beat harder.

  “We researched and selected our fodder with more discrimination than an attorney scrutinizes jurors in a career-making case. Each of our prized fodder was ignorant to human suffering and demonstrated a cruel contempt for our brothers and sisters—doing so with no provocation.” A sinister smile spread across Pop’s face. “Our footage of their cruelty combines with news headlines to show such cruelty's recompense. Today, we will show all fodder specifically what to fear and how to avoid it. Good people such as you can relax. Fodder cannot.”

  Another beep sounded from Pop’s computer and he pulled out his PDA. He held it close to his face, straining to see something on it. He tapped the screen and the movie screen lowered again. This time it showed live television and the video footage of Keith Mendalsen’s abusive tirade and assault on the homeless cameraperson. Reports now indicated that the footage was found on a DVD that was roped around Keith Mendalsen’s neck. Nearly every television news station showed the clip as Pop flipped through the channels.

  Pop sat back down behind his desk. “You see, Mark, I’ve written a prescription that will heal the suffering of our brothers and sisters. For good people such as yourself, this video footage frees you from fear and requires no behavior change. For fodder, the footage is a dose of fear that heals the illness of neglect and abuse that they have purveyed upon our brothers and sisters.”

  “But how long will it last? How many people will you take?” Mark asked tentatively.

  “We will acquire new fodder daily until homelessness dies,” Pop said, and then folded his hands and waited, anticipating another question.

  “How do you choose people—or ‘fodder’ as you call them?” Mark rushed the question out.

  “They volunteered. The cruelty that fodder exhibit toward our struggling brothers and sisters is a sort of self-selecting process. For them, being obtained by us after we’ve secretly filmed them is like winning a major role in a picture without having known they had auditioned.” Pop paused and closed his eyes to enjoy the profundity of his own analogy.

  Mark’s mind raced. He didn’t know how many more questions Pop would indulge. “How do you take them?”

  Pop turned his head to Morana. “Only the vestibule,” she said, answering his unspoken question.

  “Good,” Pop said, turning back to Mark. “Some of them join by way of our obedient elevators. They deliver fresh, self-centered and always-bewildered fodder into cozy vestibules much like the one into which you stepped ninety-three minutes ago. You are not ready to hear our other foolproof methods.”

  “You think I’ll go to the police?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t!” Pop laughed, slapping his hand to his face in mock shock. “I know two reasons you won’t. If you go to law enforcement, you’ll kick down the door of your own personal privacy. Your recent press conference didn’t thrill you, did it?” Mark shook his head. “It showed. And if you think saving my life brought you attention, you’ll be blown away with the scrutiny, not to mention suspicion that will be aimed your way.”

  Mark couldn’t argue.

  “The second reason is this,” Pop continued. “If you go to the police, then all our guests will be ‘released’ the next morning—exactly as Keith Mendalsen was. I will litter every major thoroughfare of the city with their carcasses.” Pop leaned in close to Mark’s face and said, “This is not a threat. It is a matter of fact that you will cause their immediate deaths. Yes, you’ll hinder my plan, but only after you have become a murd
erer. If it’s worth it to you to trigger the deaths of all the fodder, ruin your personal privacy, and risk culpability by association, then help yourself. Our plan will bring hope and happiness to hundreds of thousands of our brothers and sisters. So play along with us, Mark. Our mission will grow on you.”

  “Then why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to join us.”

  “Why? Why me?”

  “Because you are special. In the same way that the behavior of fodder marks them for our obtainment, your act of saving me atop the Brennan building on the Promenade has proven your integrity and dedication to our cause. We only draft heroes to participate in our mission and your character is a magnificent resume of qualification.”

  Mark tried to process what Pop had said. “If you knew I wouldn’t shoot you with the gun you handed me, then you must also know that I can’t join you. I can’t condone murder for any reason.”

  “I expected that answer from you, so let me rephrase my offer.” Pop tapped his pursed lips. “Remember one thing if nothing else when you leave here today. Remember that here in the Nest you have our highest esteem because you are truly a hero. Here you will enjoy prosperity your outside life has never known. With us you can participate in a noble cause that will change the world. Perhaps most important of all, with us you’ll have safety. If things become rough for you out there,” Pop paused to look up, “down here, you will be untouched by the impending hurricane of panic that will rage above ground. With us, you can disappear. Think about it.”

  Mark’s eyes had glazed over as he stared at a pen on Pop’s desk. Pop walked to him and extended his hand for the first time in their meeting. “I hope you’ll return home to us soon,” he said, shaking Mark’s hand with both of his.

  Morana checked her watch.

  Pop said, “Mark, our time for today is finished, but let me summarize what will take place in the next days of our mission. Our homeless brothers and sisters will cope with a troublesome few days. Thanks to our footage, they will be mistakenly suspected of taking the fodder. The public will scorn them with more viciousness than ever. Law enforcement will round them up and harass them while searching for micro-video cameras and, in some cases, applying physical encouragement,” Pop pointed to his black eye, “trying to force our brothers and sisters to give up information they don’t have.”

  “When this phase is finished, and dredging of Santa Monica’s streets for the homeless killer fails to produce a legitimate suspect, we will enter the days of bounty for the needy. The focus of law enforcement will shift to local homeless advocates. The directors of shelters, the public homeless sympathizers, the heroes who leap on rooftops to save poor bums…” Pop lowered his chin to smile at Mark, “…will be persons of extreme interest. Be on guard, Mark. Meanwhile, generosity will abound and, at last, will target the homeless. The city’s makeup will change—to the chagrin of some and the delight of others.”

  “Your goal is admirable,” Mark said, not wanting to argue with Pop.

  Pop nodded a stiff nod that turned into a stiff shake of his head. “I know you are troubled by the sacrificial fodder,” he said. He lowered his voice. “But have you any idea how many thousands of disrespected sufferers are liberated by our return of each disrespecting fodder to the streets? Does it matter if people are kind because they are kind or because fear makes them so? The end result is good—and purchased at a bargain. Mark, more phases of our plan—all predictable—will follow. I’ll tell you about them later if you are willing to keep the channels of communication open with us. For now, we must get you home.”

  “When do I have to answer you? How will I contact you?”

  “Take your time, Mark. We’ll make sure you have ample opportunity to contact us and your deadline for a decision will be clear to you very soon. If my hunch is correct about the effects of our next phase, then you might soon benefit from Trail Bladers as much as we will benefit from you.”

  Mark wanted to get out of the bunker, get to LAX, board a plane, and go to a place—any place that was far away. But he knew Pop and the Trail Bladers would be watching his every move.

  A beep came from Pop’s pocket. He pulled out his PDA and tapped the screen a few times. His phone rang.

  “Yes…Most excellent,” Pop said, and then hung up.

  “Mo,” Pop said.

  “Yes, Papa,” Morana answered.

  “Offer Mark lunch, a tour if his time will allow, and then take him wherever he wishes.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Morana led Mark out the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE RELEASE OF the Keith Mendalsen and Brandon Chargon videos locked the press in a battle with police. Police hoarded the DVDs for two days, concerned about stroking the killer’s ego by releasing his reality screenplay. During that time, the medical examiner’s office confirmed that starvation had been the victims’ cause of death. Now a third DVD, that of Jackie Dunbarton, was about to be made public. The movies were released under pressure from the media, citing the Freedom of Information Act. The footage dominated all news broadcasts. In less than ten minutes it went Internet viral. People everywhere watched it on their laptops, TVs and handhelds.

  The second and third videos were similar to Keith Mendalsen's in that they showed Brandon Chargon and Jackie Dunbarton accosting the video camera carrier in temper tantrums. Like Keith, Brandon had ended his footage by shoving the camera person.

  The videos made it clear that either a homeless person, or a killer who posed as a homeless person, was behind the dead and missing people. Because of this revelation, the randomness of the victims evaporated. Many people spent long, nail-biting moments in deep introspection about their treatment of the homeless. They tried to recall past encounters—hoping to remember kindnesses they had shown. Those who clearly remembered their behaviors toward the homeless were either relieved or petrified.

  Pop’s first prediction began to take shape outside the homes of the terrified residents of Santa Monica. Police swept the streets for anyone who appeared to be homeless. Rounded up by the hundreds, they were cuffed and put into the back of police cars for transport downtown. When the police station was full they were taken and detained in officer-guarded shelters—the very shelters designed to provide care and safety. Their clothes were examined and, in some cases, x-rayed—especially hats or jackets thick enough to conceal a camera. Those who showed the slightest knowledge of electronics were interrogated for hours. Intoxicated detainees were held until they were sober. They were carted off and interrogated until officers were satisfied that they were uninvolved in the filming and killings.

  When the roundups ended after two days, the homeless began to reappear on the streets. Many of the released suspects cowered in the shadows of alleys. Normally on watch for danger or theft of their meager possessions, the risk of police interrogation was worse. They now lived afraid of the public’s intensified fear of the homeless.

  Somewhere on these streets, a killer masqueraded as one of them and filmed examples of their treatment. Ironically, they had become suspects in crimes intended to help them. They had no way of knowing that the city's terror was inflicted on their behalf and that their suffering would end.

  §

  Ryan Thesan and Gil Dubert couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make some easy cash. Both in their early thirties, they made money as street vendors who peddled a variety of goods based on season and public demand. Their busiest, most profitable time of year began in late November when they sold Christmas trees on a lot in Venice, two miles south of Santa Monica’s southern border. In a good year, their Douglas Firs netted sixty grand in profit from two and a half months of work on their leased half-acre lot.

  Before a rare rainstorm, they split up, each working the corner of a busy intersection selling umbrellas. They opened and twirled the colorful umbrella canvasses for passing motorists who waited in their cars for traffic signals to change. North and southbound traffic in Santa Monica exper
ienced long waits between lights and these entrepreneurs knew it. “Curbside signs work better than any yellow page ad we could run,” Ryan would say to Gil—proud of his marketing discovery.

  A good season for the Lakers could net them a grand per week in t-shirt and car-flag sales. If the Lakers made the playoffs, they could net the grand daily—if they split up and sold in two locations.

  Ryan was the brain behind their operations. He had a keen eye for L.A. trends while Gil maintained a vast list of vendors and contacts that could provide any product, wholesale and at lightning speed.

  Fear and disaster were wonderful engines for their wares. After the Northridge earthquake of 1994, the duo made a small fortune selling ready-made earthquake survival kits priced just below gouging. They set up table booths at busy intersections near some of the hardest hit neighborhoods. The timeliness of their wares generated good profits. “For quakes you gotta have your goods ready for sale before the first aftershock if you want to cash in on the sweet fear dough,” Ryan once explained to a reporter who found his booth while covering a recent quake’s aftermath.

  As people began to disappear in Santa Monica, Ryan and Gil followed the news, sensing that this new wave of public fear was somehow laced with huge untapped profit. The citywide paranoia had something to offer them, but a solid idea hadn’t struck them yet. The disappearances were so mysterious that Ryan and Gil had the rare dilemma of not knowing what to sell. They couldn’t sell an antidote to a terrified public if the enemy was completely unknown.

  Ryan sat on his sofa, checking messages on his laptop when an email from Gil popped into his Inbox: “Video found on second abduction victim.” Ryan clicked the link and the video began to play, showing the jerky black and white image of Brandon Chargon sitting in his Ford Fairlane, middle finger extended toward the camera. The camera wobbled toward Brandon and his voice was heard saying, “Hell no. You should pay me for having to look at you.”