Page 2 of Chained
“People are trying to work.”
“Aw, lighten up. It’s Monday and we’ve got the best jobs in the world.” He banged three times on the door beside her as he sang the corresponding lyrics, then continued the song as he jangled his car keys and made his way to the parking garage.
Although Terry had an office at HQ—a narrow, windowless space he shared with two other agents—he rarely used it. He spent most of his time out in the field, and when the time came for the torture of writing up his reports, he’d sit in a coffeeshop and scrawl them in longhand, later reading them into a Dictaphone for the steno pool to deal with. No way was he going to spend hours pounding away on a typewriter or, even worse, a computer. In his opinion, those glaring screens were more evil than any of the monsters he confronted at work.
Some assignments required him to drive one of the Bureau vehicles, but Townsend had told him that this time, Terry’s own IROC-Z Camaro would be perfect. Good. Terry stroked its bright red roof before climbing inside. As soon as he started the engine, the Fine Young Cannibals blared through the speakers, and Terry sang along with them as he exited the garage.
A lot of the people at work complained about the LA traffic. There was even a small contingent—mostly the nerds in the lab—who had been lobbying to have HQ moved somewhere quieter, like Sacramento. They’d never get their wish, though, and that was fine with Terry. He liked to roll on the Ten even when everything was stop-and-go, listening to his music and scoping out the other drivers. He wasn’t usually in a rush to get anywhere, not with the kinds of assignments he usually pulled, and his apartment in Culver City held little allure.
Traffic at this time of day—midmorning—wasn’t actually that awful, and Terry made it from downtown to Beverly Hills in less than forty-five minutes. He had to pull over twice to consult his map, but he found the destination eventually, on a narrow street lined with tall shrubbery that obscured any view of the houses. Old cars and pickup trucks were parked up and down the street; they undoubtedly belonged to the staff who worked in the hidden mansions. Housecleaners, groundskeepers, pool cleaners, repairmen… it probably took a small army to take care of the fat cats who lived here, and the millionaires in question apparently didn’t want to sully their precious property with inferior vehicles.
Terry, however, drove to the gate. His car was good enough for this guy, or else Townsend would have told him to take something else. Terry stopped the car and got out, smoothing his cream-colored jacket as he walked to the speaker. “Terry Brandt here to see Mr. Whitaker.”
After a brief pause, a buzzer sounded and the gate slid smoothly to the side. Terry hopped into the car and drove in, following a driveway around a curve and down a hill, then whistling when he caught sight of the house. It was enormous—a long two-story structure of pale stone that looked as if it belonged to French nobility, although several towering palm trees served as a reminder that this was California. The driveway ended in a semicircular area that could have fit a dozen cars with room to spare but was currently empty except for a large fountain in the center. He parked, checked his hair in the mirror, and got out.
Before he had a chance to decide whether he was supposed to just walk up to the front entrance and knock, a woman appeared atop the small flight of concrete stairs that led to the house. She was in her late thirties, beautiful enough to be a model, and wearing a white suit with wide shoulders and a slim, short skirt. She’d smoothed her dark hair into a poufy bun, and her heels were sensibly low. She smiled at him. “Hello, Mr. Brandt,” she called.
He took a step toward her—then froze as three gigantic dogs materialized behind her and trotted past her down the stairs. The creatures had short, fawn-colored fur with black masks, and their powerful muscles rippled as they moved. Mastiffs, Terry guessed, although he wasn’t sure. Whatever their breed, each of them weighed more than he did, and those jaws looked heavy enough to take down a triceratops. The metal chains around their necks were oddly delicate for such large animals.
Terry remained very still as the dogs surged closer, although he couldn’t stop his heart from racing and his breaths from coming faster. The dogs weren’t growling or acting aggressive—just intensely interested—and after a few sniffs, they stood back and scrutinized him with exceptionally intelligent eyes.
The woman had come down the stairs and now held out her hand. “I’m Brenda Stroman.” After a handshake that was almost uncomfortably firm, she said, “Come with me, please.”
She walked at a fast clip, Terry at her side and the dogs close behind. They went up the stairs, along a wide walkway of patterned concrete, and through a set of carved double doors. Based on the house’s exterior, the foyer looked more modern than he’d expected—black and white marble, a sleek curved stairway, an asymmetrical crystal chandelier. The dogs’ nails clicked on the floor as the entourage passed through a series of rooms full of couches, chairs, and large abstract paintings. Aside from the colorful artwork, everything was in shades of gray, cream, ecru, white, or black. Terry wondered if Ms. Stroman had dressed to coordinate with the décor. He marveled that any person could need so many rooms with places to sit. His own apartment had a tiny bedroom and a small living room with a kitchenette, and that was plenty for him.
He expected they’d end up in an office of some kind. Instead she took him into a large room dominated by a chrome-edged billiard table centered on a chevron parquet wood floor. One wall held shelves filled with a variety of glasses and bottles of liquor, fronted by a bar with four stools. The other walls were painted steel-gray with glossy black wainscoting.
“Wait here, please,” Ms. Stroman said. “Mr. Whitaker will be with you shortly.”
She left, closing the door behind her, but the dogs remained with Terry. Two of them sat flanking the doorway, which made him uneasy, while the third took a spot at the opposite end of the room. Again, none of them seemed hostile, but they weren’t relaxed either. Vigilant. That was the word for them. They suddenly reminded Terry of his early years with the Bureau, when he’d been far too green to be trusted with assignments like the current one. He’d worked with a few other agents, providing security when sensitive items needed to be transported or when an agent wanted an extra set of eyes—and an extra weapon—to back them up.
“Don’t worry,” Terry said to the dogs. “Just here for a job interview. I’m not gonna steal anything.”
They didn’t react.
After a few minutes of enduring their scrutiny, Terry grew bored and restless. He walked over to the bar and peered at the bottles on the shelves. Twenty-five-year-old Chivas. Eighteen-year-old Macallan. Amber cognacs, clear vodkas, and dozens of others. Terry had never been much of a drinker even when he used to go clubbing, but he recognized the brands and knew every one of them was top-shelf.
“Does three-hundred-dollar booze really taste that much better than the twenty-buck stuff?” he asked the dogs. If they had an opinion, they didn’t share it.
There wasn’t much else to look at, not even a painting. He carefully opened a door near the bar and discovered a bathroom with gilded fixtures and a mirror with an ornate gold frame. He shut the door.
That left him with not much to do except stare back at the dogs. And since they might interpret that as a threat, he stared at the wall instead as he listened to the dogs breathe. They weren’t panting, but he imagined that they’d probably drool when they did, and then someone would have to clean up after them. Maybe there was a special servant for that purpose.
Terry had owned a dog when he was a little kid, a medium-sized mutt of unknown parentage that his father had found as a stray. Her name was Wilma because Terry was a bigFlintstonesfan at the time, and in Terry’s memory, at least, she was the smartest, best-behaved, most loving creature ever to walk the face of the Earth. In reality she was probably entirely ordinary, but she was certainly his best friend and loyal companion. Three or four years after they’d adopted her, Terry’s parents died. His aunt had taken him in but wasn’t willing to deal with a dog as well as an orphan. Terry never did get a straight story regarding what happened to Wilma. He liked to think she’d found a new family.
“Maybe someday I’ll get a dog,” he said. “When I have time for one. Wouldn’t work now, because you can’t just leave them at home all day. I bet even when your owner’s gone, you have plenty of other people around. Ms. Stroman, the housecleaning staff. And you have each other for company too. That’s good.”
The dog sitting alone glanced quickly at the others and then away, as if acknowledging Terry’s words. Right. And maybe next he’d offer Terry a drink.
If Terry were still a novice, he might have spent this time mentally rehearsing the role he was playing. But he’d been with the Bureau for eight years, had experienced a lot, and knew that it was better to be spontaneous. Too much practice made him wooden. So instead he thought about what he’d do if he were as rich as Whitaker. Own lots of cars, probably. Some nice threads. But beyond that? No idea. There wasn’t much he really wanted to buy.
He was mulling over the relative benefits of hypothetical Lamborghinis and Ferraris when the door swung open and Whitaker strode in. He was in his sixties but looked younger, with a full head of silver hair and a trim physique. In his polo shirt and white shorts, he looked as if he’d just stepped off a tennis court, except he wasn’t sweaty or out of breath. After shooting a quick glance at Terry, he headed straight for the bar, where he poured himself a generous glass of scotch and took a slug. He didn’t offer Terry anything. He didn’t acknowledge the dogs either, and they didn’t move to greet him, which struck Terry as a little odd.
Glass in hand, Whitaker approached Terry and slowly looked him up and down. “How old are you?” That was it—no greeting or introductions.
“Twenty-six.”
Whitaker huffed. “Here’s how it goes, kid. Rule One. My clients never lie to me. If I take you on, you’re gonna lie to the producers and directors. You’ll lie to the talk show hosts, the assholes sticking mics in your face when you’re on the red carpet, the fans who come running up to beg you for autographs, the pieces of tail you fuck in hotels. All that comes with the job—actors lie for a living. But every word you say to me’s gotta be God’s honest truth, or you’re out on your ass. Got it? Now, how old are you?”
