Description
Hunter had hated his father’s New Year’s Day soirees ever since he was a kid, but if this bullshit made the old man happy, what the hell? It was part of his birthright.
He spent the next two hours working his way through the crowd, clasping hands, bussing cheeks, and tossing off honey-voiced banalities. They were nothing more than empty platitudes, but personalized just enough to give people on the receiving end the impression that he actually gave a shit. What they didn’t know was how much he actually knew about them.
Hunter Alden’s entire financial engine was fueled by information. He spent millions putting eyes and ears in place around the globe. His intelligence network had infiltrated governments, businesses, and regulatory bodies. And because the rich have more dirty little secrets than most, he made it his business to dig deep into the personal lives of almost everyone in the room. He was willing to use whatever dirt he dug up against them, and he had.
By 10:00 p.m., his glad-handing done, he slipped quietly out the door and took Hutch’s private elevator to the lobby.
Nils, the short, squat night doorman, was on duty. “Pretty nippy out there, Mr. Alden,” he said. “Nineteen degrees. Twelve with the windchill factor. You sure you don’t need a coat?”
Why the hell would I need a coat? Hunter thought. His world was climate controlled. Even the canopy outside the building had been outfitted with heat lamps to warm the wealthy as they walked the twenty feet from the lobby door to their waiting limos.
“Don’t worry, Nils. I’ll be fine,” he said.
His father’s black Cadillac was idling at the curb. Findley St. John, Hutch’s longtime driver, saw him and spread both arms wide.
Findley was one of the few people to penetrate the wall that Hunter had built around himself. He had sung songs with Hunter when he drove the boy to his first day of kindergarten; he had pummeled three young thugs who mugged Hunter in middle school; and he’d almost gotten himself fired when he swore that the vodka bottle in the back of the Caddy belonged to him and not Hutch’s fourteen-year-old son.
“Happy New Year, sport,” he boomed, wrapping his arms around Hunter.
“Same to you, old man. I see you’re still driving this piece of shit American car.”
Findley put a gloved hand on the rear door handle, swung open the door, and shut it as soon as Hunter was in, leaving almost no time for the preheated air to escape into the cold night.
“Piece of shit car?” Findley said, getting behind the wheel. “You know what your daddy says. ‘If it’s good enough for the president of the United States, it’s good enough for me.’”
“My father is too old and too rich to settle for ‘good enough.’ Nothing is more reliable than German engineering.”
The mano a mano verbal sparring between the two men had been going on for decades, and Findley was thrilled to have another go at it. “And yet,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Hunter, “that reliable German car of yours had to be bailed out by this piece of shit from Detroit.”
“It wasn’t the car that caused the problem,” Hunter said. “It was my unreliable Haitian driver.”
Findley let out a throaty laugh. He was from the same village as Peter. “I just drove Ms. Janelle home, and she didn’t say nothing about no unreliable Haitians. Sounded more like the problem was that footloose teenager of yours. The apple sure don’t fall far from the tree.”
The ride up Madison gave them less than five minutes to catch up before Findley turned left on 81st Street. “Good news,” he said as he pulled the Cadillac up to Hunter’s four-story Beaux Arts limestone town house. “Light’s on in the garage, so it looks like Peter is home.”
“Son of a bitch,” Hunter said, jumping out of the car before Findley could get to the door. “Why the hell didn’t he call me?”
“I’m not hanging around to find out,” Findley said, putting the limo in gear. “Don’t be too hard on him, sport. It’s New Year’s.”
Hunter headed straight for the garage. He flipped the keypad cover and tapped in the code, more excited to see his dream car than to confront Peter.
His Maybach 62 S had been built at the Center of Excellence in Sindelfingen, Germany. It was, in the words of the personal adviser who had worked with Hunter during the entire fourteen-month period from commission to delivery, “a one-of-a-kind automotive masterpiece, thoughtfully designed and flawlessly handcrafted to mirror the style and personality of its owner.” And to Hunter, it was worth every penny of the 1.1 million it had cost to build it.
The garage door opened, and the room lit up even brighter. The space was wide and deep and empty. Hunter sucked in a lungful of the crisp January air. His car wasn’t there. The only thing on the silver-pearl and slate-gray Swisstrax floor was the bright yellow molded polyethylene box that sat in the middle—Tripp’s camera case. For Hunter, it was a bit of a relief. At least his son was home.
And then he saw it. At first it looked like random red markings on the yellow case. He got closer. The brownish-red lines were not from a marker. It was dried blood. And the haphazard strokes were actually letters: HHA III—Hunter Hutchinson Alden III. Tripp’s initials.
Hunter dropped to his knees, snapped the stainless steel butterfly latches, and opened the case. Nestled on top was a Ziploc bag with a cell phone inside. He removed the bag and jerked back in horror at what was underneath: a severed head, cushioned by the case’s thick foam lining, blood-soaked viscera hanging from the stump of its neck, the whites of its eyes staring up at Hunter.
It was Peter.
A single piece of paper was wedged between his lips. Hunter unfolded it and stared at the message. Five words, neatly typed.
There’s money to be made.
Hunter’s chest clenched, and he could barely fill his lungs with air. It was impossible, inconceivable, but there it was. Somebody somewhere had found out about Project Gutenberg.
Shaking, Hunter Alden closed the garage door and headed upstairs to pour his first drink of the new year.