Chapter 6

Ms. Beaumont had mentioned that her husband wasn’t making as much money as he probably should have been. I’m not sure what amount ‘should have been’ was referring to, but this couple was so far out of my price range that it gave me vertigo.
I was greeted at the door and welcomed in. She was dressed in a long grey skirt slit high up the back, a grey sweater and boots. Even with my limited knowledge of fashion, I recognized that the outfit must have cost a couple grand. That wasn’t including the ornate necklace.
“So what brings you here, Mr. Alexander? I mean, besides the obvious. Have you any idea what has happened to my husband?”
“No, Ms. Beaumont. But, as you noted, that’s why I’m here.”
“Please, if you’d like, you may call me Andrea. I’d certainly like.”
I’m pretty sure I blushed. But I don’t like to think about it much. She turned and guided me in.
“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Alexander?”
“Yes. Whiskey, please. And you may call me Martin, if you’d like.”
“No, I believe I’ll stay with ‘Mr. Alexander’ if that’s OK.”
We crossed a room roughly the size of my entire apartment. Entering into another room, a little smaller this time, I continued to be impressed with the sheer opulence of their lifestyle. The leather sofa and matching chairs looked almost cloud soft. And I think the end tables and coffee table were hand carved out of the same 2000 year old tree by a single man. Andrea poured me a half a tumbler of 300 dollar bourbon. I nodded to indicate a full glass.
“Here, Mr. Alexander. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
I took a sip. It was silk. It was smokey sunlight.
“I could die happy drinking this.”
“Many have. Well, not many. But more than a few.”
“No doubt. The price would be prohibitive.”
“And the fact that this particular batch is distilled with the slightest amount of opiates. The legality of which prevents it from being brought into the country”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Which word was confusing you?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“While I’ve hardly lead a pure life, and have had more than my share of chemicals introduced into my system, both voluntarily and otherwise, when it happens on the job, it generally is followed by a lump on the head and ropes.”
“Ropes, Mr. Alexander?”
“Well, last time I was doped up, I was held hostage for three days by a gentleman who had assembled a veritable army of children aged 5 to 11 as part of a plan to bring the second coming.”
“Do tell!”
“Not much to tell. He thought he was staging a modern childrens crusade. He was waiting for the right time to take back the holy land from, well, the Prussians.”
“The Prussians don’t control Israel. And I’m not sure there are any Prussians anymore.”
“No. It made for very interesting conversations.”
“How ever did you escape?”
“I convinced them I was, in fact, the second coming. Or, at least, a herald thereof.”
“Really? But how?”
“Luckily, the schitzophrenically dulusional are open to suggesting if you know how.”
“And you do?”
“Yes. I have certain…understandings that helped out.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“You are a very interesting man, Mr. Alexander.”
I was still smiling like an idiot.
“Yet I’m still smiling like an idiot.”
“Well, you can’t blame a man for that all things considered,” she glanced down at my glass.
I followed her eyes and noticed I’d finished it.
“I suppose not.”
“Can I show you around the house? I rarely have guests these days.”
“Well, I do have some questions.”
“And you can’t walk and ask questions at the same time?”
“Usually, yes. I’m not certain at the moment, though.”
“Oh, I think a man of your caliber can pull it together for my interrogation, can’t you?”
“I’ll endeavor to live up to your expectations.”
I followed her from the room. Not like I had any choice. We made small talk as we walked up a spiraling staircase. I suppose it was, in fact, a spiral staircase, but it was definitely spiraling for me.
“Andrea, your husband, you’ve made some insinuations that he wasn’t bringing in the kind of cash he should have been. How do you have this sort of house then? I mean, its massive and opulent, to say the least.”
“Oh this? Michael had a relatively who died about a year ago. He actually had to visit his family numerous times to help with the paper work and such. He was gone quite a bit. Sixth months ago, he got a letter saying that this relative, who Michael had barely ever known, had left him a large amount of money. So we bought this. And all the furniture in it. And, well, everything in it. Including the whiskey you seemed to enjoy.”
“That’s quite the relative.”
“I believe my husband described him as ‘quite crazy’.”
“We should all be so lucky to have that kind of crazy in our families.”
She laughed softly.
I tried to laugh but got too dizzy and almost choked.
“Ahem. Excuse me. Your husband was gone a lot from work, especially around lunch. Three hours, maybe more. Did he ever mention this? Or what he might be doing?”
“No, but he’s been so busy. And he’s been gone a lot.”
“A lot?”
“He’s been spending a number of nights…elsewhere.”
“Ms. Beaumont, that’s what we generally call ‘significant information’. Is there any reason you didn’t mention this before?”
“I’m mentioning it now, Mr. Alexander.”
I felt my skin flush, then go cold.
“Did your husband…did he…”
I went dizzy.
“Mr. Alexander?”
I went horizontal.
“Mr. Alexander? Is it comfortable down there?”
I knew where this was heading. I decided a nap would be a good idea.

I woke up sometime later. Ms. Beaumont wasn’t kind enough to place a clock in the room. Needless to say, I was bound to a chair. On the plus side, the cords were silk and the chair amazingly comfortable. I couldn’t see her, but I could ‘feel’ her behind me.
“Well, this is certainly the most comfortable way I’ve woken up in a while. At least, the most comfortable way I’ve woken up in a while after being drugged.”
“That’s a barrel chair designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was commissioned by an elderly gentleman of great wealth but little distinction until he was revealed to be a Nazi who fled Germany two days before the allies arrived. Ebay. 24,000 dollars. A steal at twice the price.”
“One has to wonder if my ass is really worth 24 grand.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
“Are you putting me down just as part of some sort of kinky game?” I pulled at the silk cords. “I mean, seriously, did you think you had to drug me to get me to play good?”
“Mr. Alexander, do you think I don’t get what I want anytime I want it?” She came around carrying what appeared to be a very heavy, ornate chair in one hand. She was either very strong or the chair was much lighter than it appears. My luck implied the former. She placed it down backwards a few feet away from me, slowly hiked up her long skirt, and straddled the chair, resting her arms on its back.
“I believe this is how I am supposed to sit during interrogations. Am I getting it right?”
“First time, Ms. Beaumont? Oh, that makes this all very sweet!” I contemplated vomiting but I realized I couldn’t lean forward enough. Being bound to the chair was unpleasant, being covered in my own vomit was unacceptable.
“Given that I have ‘slipped you a mickey’, bound you with silk straight from China to a chair you could never afford to buy in your life, don’t you think this level of intimacy might warrant you calling me ‘Andrea’?”
“Given that you have ‘slipped me a mickey’, bound me with silk straight from China to a chair I could never afford to buy in my life, this level of abuse warrants me calling you ‘Ms. Beaumont’.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Though my way is more pleasant, I think.”
“Who am I to argue?”
“Then we are agreed?”
“Yes, Ms. Beaumont.”
She sighed and chuckled.
“Annoying, aren’t you?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to notice.” I contemplated the nature of our conversation. It was unusually flippant for, you know, our seating arrangement, but it certainly seemed better than what was likely to come next.
“I’m not planning on torturing you,” she read my mind. “Don’t get me wrong. I can and will if I must. On top of that, I can and will get people in here much more skilled than I am. I would rather avoid that. I am no sadist, Mr. Alexander. But I do expect results.”
“Results? Its been 48 hours. Well, assuming I haven’t been unconscious for a week.”
“Oh, yes, I wasn’t criticizing your performance so far. That’s been fine. My goal here was to drive home the urgency of this investigation and to make sure you had a vested interest in finding my husband quickly and efficiently.”
“Ah. I see. So you are of the ‘stick’ school of encouragement. I really do prefer sugar.”
“No doubt. Alas, sugar rarely seems to be effective. At least, the sugar I offer.” She shifted her hips.
“That was absolutely awful.”
“I know. I apologize. But the point still stands. You simply must find my husband.”
“I believe you made that abundantly clear.”
“Yes, but now there’s this lovely little threat involved.”
“Right, sorry, forgot.”
“Oh, and in case you were wondering, I didn’t choose you at random.”
I was unsurprised.
“You were diagnosed paranoid schitzophrenic, committed to Revegate Hospital 18 months ago, and released 12 months ago. But you aren’t sick, are you, Mr. Alexander?”
“Depends on which of my girlfriends you ask.”
“You see things which aren’t there, but they really are, aren’t they?”
“That’s an interesting sentence.”
“Not as interesting as ‘I was dead. Now I’m not’.”
“Wait, did you…”
She reached over and turned around one of the cavases.
I almost vomited. It was some abstract painting. Not very good from what I could tell. But the problem was it screamed information at me, blasting through any defenses I had. The winds of data that I kept at bay, the eye in which I kept my sanity buckled and shrank. I caught glimpses of, I don’t know, things. Places, people. I saw them for hundredths of a second. Nothing I could grasp.
She turned the painting away from me.
“Yes. I expect this would cause you a certain amount of distress. Being drugged, I guessed, would weaken your ability to keep all this out. Yes, Mr. Alexander, I do have a certain amount of understanding regarding your abilities.”
“Agooba,” was all I could manage.
“So I do have your attention. Now, this painting was done by my husband. And I’m hoping that all this input you are now receiving will help in your attempts to find him. I’m sorry that this is unpleasant for you, though. I know about the training you’ve received and how you now access these perceptions. However, that indirect path wasn’t going to work here. I need you to get this in your head and I need you to do it now. This is, trust me, the best way. I know.”
“Wait, how do you…”
“Mr. Alexander, do you really think you are my first? That there weren’t others?”
“Others?? Wait, I…”
She turned the painting around again and that was all she wrote for me.
I came to on the same sofa I started this out on.
“Agooba,” I repeated.
“Yes. Agooba,” she repeated, sitting in the matching chair sipping what I assumed was the same whiskey I’d had earlier.
“How long has it been?”
“Oh, 8 hours or so. You’ve had quite the day, Mr. Alexander.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.” My head hurt. Information migraine.
“Its all in the interest of the case. Trust me.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.”
“Do you always repeat yourself?”
“You mean there’s something you don’t know about me?”
“No, there really isn’t.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you know all this? And who else you know like me?”
“No, I really don’t. All I’ll say is that when you have money and motivation and absolutely no scruples, you meet the most interesting people.”
“Goodie.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Alexander. I’m done with the stick for now. I’m moving on to the obligatory bribe. Should you accomplish your task, and should the results be what I am hoping for, I’ll have certain offers for you that I believe will be mutually beneficial.” She crossed her legs. Her boots, I noticed, had been replaced by strappy, leather pumps. “Did I mention I was also aware of your foot fetish?”
“No. I have to say that I’m find all of this to be really intrusive.”
“Of course you do. It IS intrusive. But these techniques tend to get me what I want. And, as I said, they may end up getting you what you want.”
“And exactly why do you think they won’t get you a black eye, a broken lip, and a jail cell?”
“Because, while you are inexperienced, and trapped in a film-noir fantasy, you aren’t an idiot. If I end up in jail, my people will still be out there. As will you. And the bullet proof glass in your office won’t withstand a SWAT team issue high-powered sniper rifle.”
“Ah. Yes.”
I hadn’t thought of any of that, but I wasn’t going to let her know. Not my fault, really. I was still drunk and stoned.
“Find my husband, Mr. Alexander. Find my husband, get me what I want, and I’ll give you at least a little of what you need.”
She grinned.
“I’ll even let you beg.”
I blushed so red it burned.
“Yes, Ms. Beaumont.”
“Now, did you ever imagine things like this happening when you opened your office?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I did. Is that sad?”
“Probably. But its OK, just part of one long sentence.”
“Thanks.”
“You can go now.”
“Can I take the bottle?”
“Why not. Consider it a tip.”
I took my present and left. A car was waiting for me and took me back to the office. Once inside, I contemplated getting stark raving drunk, but the whirlwind of data that was spinning in my head made that feel like a colossally bad idea. Thought about meditating, trying to repair some of the damage that had been done. I wasn’t sure I could though. More so, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I could almost see words and images dancing over my retinas, all based on that painting. Which surprised me. It really was just from the painting. Everything else, all the other input that I should have been getting from, well, everything, wasn’t there. It was all still in the jetstream. Just the painting data had infiltrated my safe zone. Nothing had ever quite worked like that before. I was surprised, then less so. She knew something about what was going on in my head. She knew others like me. And she said something. Something familiar. ‘One long sentence’.
One long sentence.
Which, I’m pretty sure, was how this all began.