🌁 chapter four: the belly of the beast [let me be your ghost]
"We are all watched over by machines of loving grace."
"We are all watched over by machines of loving grace." -Richard Brautigan
My night terrors required my mind to be doused in melatonin to reach dreamland. That night I didn’t draw the blinds—I slept better knowing the sun had my back—and so the rotating lighthouse beam circled around me constantly, throwing shadows into every corner of the round room.
Somehow, I drifted off, and the early morning rays replaced the milky spotlight beam.
I sat up in bed, still fully dressed under the silk sheets.
Luxury is a trap.
Before scorching Arizona summers of my high school, I had grown up in Ohio winters, used to the hard labor of shoveling snow and near-freezing squeaky wood floors of our Columbus home, built inside a converted bank in a stout, drafty brick building. My father used to warn me against giving into the finer things in life, speaking of them as if “god-fearing” and “poor” needed to own real estate in the same breath to ring true.
Nothing could trap me—at least, nothing beyond my current bargain.
My autonomy was my sole comfort. I had everything I needed in my pen to build and protect my world. Nothing else mattered. Or, that’s what I had so desperately tried to convince myself of all these years of solitude.
I rolled over in the silk sheets, reaching for the old school tape recorder, my fingers grazing the play button, a specially selected tape inside—
—but I stopped myself. Not now. I needed to get going. It was my first day on the job, after all. I popped out the old tape, sliding it in a case and placing it on my side table.
As I got out of bed, the light glinted off the telescope in the corner of the room. But instead of pointing to the sky, it was aimed downward.
Curious, I walked over to the metal contraption and pressed my eye against the viewfinder.
Through the lens, I could see a rustling of curtains in the main house. The curtains moved slightly, and beyond them I could make out figures—a corner of a bed—which is when I realized:
The telescope was pointed directly at Eze’s bedroom.
I stepped back and pushed the telescope’s sight up toward the sky.
It felt like there were more traps here than just luxury.
…
When I turned on my phone—not my phone, actually, but some new square touch screen I’d been gifted upon arrival, with my sparse contacts list already loaded should I need anything—I had a text from a contact named Head of Staff, with an itinerary for the day.
The itinerary began with breakfast in the main house, followed by a meeting with Eze at his office at 10:00am. A burst of butterflies let loose in my stomach. It begins.
When I opened the wooden wardrobe to hang up my clothes, I was faced with a Dior cream dress that must have been worth thousands of dollars. Disgusted, I pulled off the note attached to it.
It’s quite European to dress nicely, you know.
-Eze
What a waste. I shut the wardrobe and unpacked a black turtleneck sweater and my usual black jeans and a pair of smooth black boots, getting dressed methodically, taking my time to keep my nervous system in check. I stuffed my electronic tablet and tape recorder into my boxy black leather shoulder bag, ready to go.
One last look at the wardrobe—on second thought, I grabbed the dress and stuffed it into my bag, too.
…
As I made my way down from the lighthouse and stepped outside into the morning rays, the landscape around me sprang to life.
Eze’s property was made up of lush rolling hills leading to a treeline thickened with fog like heavy cream. Seagulls and salty morning air wafted in from the cliffs behind me.
As I approached the main house, I was struck by how organic and natural the design felt—the outer walls almost looked like porous pumice stone, as if the house had been carved from the earth itself and was just as much a part of the landscape as the trees and cliffs behind me.
When I reached the front door, I placed my hand on the wood surface to push it open—there was no handle anywhere—and stepped inside a home that felt like a gallery.
Inside, I smelled the scent of breakfast and eggs mingled with fine sauces and spices. A wooden table carved from what must have been a beautiful felled tree was covered in an untouched buffet of warm food, all of it waiting for me.
I pulled up a chair made of the same wood that was molded to the human form, all soft rounded edges instead of the sharp perfection of normal chairs.
Before I could dive into the breakfast, I heard a beeping noise.
A small squat robot the size of a trash can had rolled out to greet me. A hot latte and a crisp glass of orange juice balanced on the wooden tray on top of the robot.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the drinks from the robot and setting them in front of me. The robot gave a self-satisfied series of beeps before rotating around and rolling back in the direction of the kitchen. Leave it to the tech billionaires to automate everything.
I didn’t spend much time contemplating the state of Eze’s home as the smell of the food overwhelmed my senses. I dove in, ravenous, scooping tiny deviled eggs cut into dainty shapes onto my plate. Such beautiful food prepared for a table of one.
After I finished eating, the Eze-issued phone in my pocket buzzed. A message from the Head of Staff: Car’s outside waiting for you.
I looked around and spotted a camera in the corner of the room. I was being watched. Of course I was. This mansion hadn’t always belonged to Eze—it was his father’s, after all. The eye in the sky of the entire world. I had to assume I was under constant surveillance. I placed my napkin on the table and stood.
As I pushed open the front door, I saw my first human of the morning: a grumpy-looking woman wearing an apron on her beanpole frame and years of hard work as wrinkles on her face stood outside smoking. She looked to be in her early forties, maybe, with sun-tanned skin.
“Hi,” I said, and she looked up, bored.
“Hi,” she said, sizing me up, a slight accent I had trouble placing. Maybe Argentinian?
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Angela,” the woman said, her defenses up like a raised cat’s hackles.
“Nice to meet you, Angela. I have something for you,” I said, reaching into my shoulder bag and pulling out the Dior dress.
I tossed it to her. She caught it, stunned.
I started walking toward the driveway. “Thank you,” Angela called after me, and I could hear a hidden warmth thawing her cold tone.
“Sure,” I said. Giving away Eze’s stupid gifts might come in handy. The staff were the ones who actually ran this place and they might be useful.
I reached the round dirt driveway where Xavier’s car was idling. I opened the car door, tossed my bag into the backseat, and jumped in after it.
“Let’s go,” I said, and Xavier nodded, starting up the car.
I put in my headphones, closed my eyes, and psyched myself up as we started the drive to Eze’s office.
Into the belly of the beast.
…
I was whisked away from the property by the SUV and descended into the dark leafy green tunnel as I was removed from the bubble of La Honda and plunged back into the concrete-and-freeway world that was San Francisco proper.
Eze’s office was a massive compound on the fringe of the city, a modern sleek stronghold. I was half expecting there to be a moat with electronic crocodiles outside the smooth cement walls. But as the black sedan slowed by the guard tower, I spotted something much more sinister than medieval torture or defense mechanisms, like an array of smooth glass orbs embedded in the walls of the perimeter.
The all-seeing eye. Another reminder that I was here to infiltrate and destroy a place of evil, a glass-and-data lair of which Eze had inherited the modern throne and the scepter to go along with it. He wasn’t his father—not yet—but he had chosen to wear his father’s crown. That was damning enough evidence for me.
The guard who emerged from the guard tower wore all black, and, strangely, a plague doctor mask. Not quite, I realized, as the mask lacked a long beak. But the mask had huge bug eyes, and as the driver rolled down the back window and the security guard approached me, I shrank back.
Those eyes were facial recognition cameras. I recognized those orbs from a news piece I had seen about Crane Industries and their state-of-the art cameras that did more than just see. They monitored body heat, were nearly as clever as x-ray vision, peeling back layers of what was on the other side of the lens with a kind of design I barely understood. And here I was, seeing it up close.
Just as quick, the bug-eyed guard stepped back, nodded, and the driver rolled up my window, my heart wanting to sprint from my chest.
Xavier started driving forward toward the seamless concrete wall.
He drove and drove straight at the wall—
“Wait!” I cried, waiting for the collision of the car with the solid concrete.
But there was no crunch of metal against cement, no crumpling of steel like tissue paper.
Instead, the road beneath us dropped—
—and my stomach flopped like a fish out of water as the car hurtled down—
—down—
—down—
—into the depths beneath the building as I realized there had surely been hinges on a platform below the car that had given way to an underground parking garage with a drop so steep it may as well have been a roller coaster.
We must have been descending floors at a breakneck pace, but I was so disoriented I had no idea how deep underground we must be when the car finally leveled out.
I was trying to rein in my gasping breaths when the car stopped in total darkness, just headlights illuminating a single, neon-rimmed door glowing ahead of us.
“We’re here,” Xavier said with a kind of nonchalance that made me think he did this every day.
Get it the fuck together, Lola, I said to myself, and took a deep breath as I opened the car door.
The moment I did, tiles lit up on the pavement below my feet, a glowing path to the singular arc, the white neon lining the door welcoming me.
A glimmer above caught my eye. As I walked to the door, I saw another orb, another set of eyes watching me.
As I reached the arch, it turned red and a drawer spit out at me.
“Phone and smart products, please,” an electronic voice demanded of me.
“I need these,” I said.
“Devices will be given on loan past this point,” the electronic voice replied.
I placed the Crane-issued phone, my headphones, and my electronic tablet in the drawer and removed my hands just as it snapped shut.
I started to walk through, but the arch flashed red again.
“All smart devices—”
I whipped my tape recorder out, a fresh tape inside.
“This is a dumb device,” I said, waving it in the direction of the nearest black orb. “I can’t send a text with this.”
The red arch pulsed, thinking. Then it warmed green.
“Welcome to Crane Industries, Lola Whitman,” the cold voice said, and more floor tiles lit up and directed me to a pair of opening doors of an elevator that parted with a soft ding.
I stepped inside and the elevator doors closed. The elevator ascended smoothly without the press of a button. In fact, there were no buttons, not even emergency switches, which I felt was probably illegal.
It was a subtle reminder to guests that Crane Industries was above the law of building codes. Potentially above many more laws as well.
I was feeling petty, so I reached for my phone instinctively to snap a photo of the empty elevator interior to cause some overdue building inspections. But I was reminded by the emptiness in my pocket that I was without a lifeline here.
No way to even call for help. Intentional, of course, I assumed.
I nearly lost track of time with how long the elevator was ascending for. Was I going to step out into the clouds?
With another polite ding, the elevator doors slid open.
Sure enough, I was greeted by sunshine and clouds—or perhaps the infamous San Franciscan fog—caressing the panoramic windows.
“Lola,” a brunette with wide eyes and a slicked-back pixie cut ponytail cornered me here. “I’m Hayden.”
She held out a hand for a very professional handshake. Her blazer felt formal for a tech company, but the others milling around also were dressed in a sharp corporate style, suits pressed so clean they nearly looked painted on. It looked at odds with the way Eze had presented, and matched more closely to the images I had seen of his father.
“I’m Lola, but you knew that,” I said, a bit awkwardly as my gaze returned to Hayden.
“I do,” Hayden said, her chipperness eclipsing my uneasiness. “This way.”
Hayden led me past a cavernous lobby, the windows only showing blue and white.
How high up were we?
“Crane Industries’ headquarters was built to model a new lighthouse. Our late founder Mr. Crane—may he rest in peace—insisted that we think above the fray as to always make decisions un-muddied by the noise of daily life.”
Oh, this girl has guzzled the Kool-Aid, I thought to myself. And what did the Cranes have with lighthouses?
“Seems like he really liked lighthouses,” I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm so it didn’t come across like sarcasm.
Hayden just nodded. “It’s what the logo of Crane Industries was modeled after. Again, to bring light to the darkness of the unknown.”
“Love that concept,” I said sincerely—after all, I was here for that very reason. “How long has Eze been CEO?” I asked.
I saw Hayden bristle. “Ezekiel took over as the interim CEO just over four months ago.”
“He must be eager to get going on this book,” I said, fishing as we continued to wind through hallways before coming to a stop by a smooth wall.
“Mmm,” Hayden replied, giving me nothing, and touched the backside of her hand on the wall, a panel sliding open in response as the wall glowed green.
“Is that…?”
“Loose keycards are a security risk. All of our access chips are embedded under our skin,” Hayden replied as she led me up a spiral staircase.
I silently cursed Eze’s father for his steadfast approach to security. Not having access to any electronic devices and being dependent on Hayden or another member of Eze’s staff with microchips embedded into their bodies for access to rooms was not ideal as far as snooping around went. No wonder the FBI was so eager to offer me a frothy deal when they realized what kind of access I could have into this fortress.
I arrived in a windowless alcove, all sandstone except for an oak desk with a computer monitor glowing with a logged out screen.
“Ezekiel is expecting you,” Hayden said, and placed the back of her hand to touch the wall as it slid open to reveal Eze’s office beyond, Hayden abandoning my side to lower efficiently into her desk chair with the ease of someone used to mounting Pilates reformers.
But I wasn’t paying attention to Hayden now.
I was staring at the sight before me.
Ezekiel Crane stood facing a wall of glass, a mountain of a man with his broad shoulders. But this wall of windows did not face out to the endless horizon—it faced inwards, towards the belly of the silo-like office.
As I approached Eze and the doors slid closed behind me, I saw what he saw. Windows looks into workshops, corner offices, other floors where the employees of Crane Industries worked in their polished suits or blue jumpsuits as I saw sparks flying from floors that were dedicated to building and creating what I imagined were the orbs that were mounted on every corner of the building.
“Twelve days,” Eze said, standing next to me as we looked out on the office together.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Every worker you see in this building. They only have twelve vacation days per year to celebrate birthdays, weddings, anniversaries. To see the world. The rest of their days they spend in this silo, building the future of American security. What do you think of that?”
I turned to him, searching the depths of his green eyes, as lush as the forest he lived in. “I think that’s pretty standard when it comes to devoting your life to a cause like building Crane Industries,” I said, picking the most neutral thing I could think to say.
Eze’s expression was unreadable. He stepped past me, and I felt my breath catch as his imposing frame slipped past my own as he headed to the small black granite countertop across from his desk where a stovetop and vacuum-sealed cans of espresso waited by trendy misshapen stone mugs.
“Espresso?” Eze asked.
“Sure,” I said, never one to turn down a caffeine source.
He rolled up his sleeves—a nicer shirt than the linen I’d seen him in. A suit jacket lay discarded on the sofa by the door. Was Eze wearing a costume here? Playing a role?
“It’s an impressive office,” I said. “A lot more formal than the other Silicon Valley companies.”
“Impressive?” Eze murmured, tipping beans into a hand grinder. His eyes cut to me. “What about this office is impressive?”
I raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “Um, for one we’re in the fucking sky a million floors up.”
“I don’t think you’re impressed.”
I froze, but tried to play it off. “What do you mean?”
Eze turned the crank, slow and even, the beans cracking under it. “I don’t need to be flattered like your other clients. My ego is not so fragile. I want to know what you really think. No lies.”
If you lie here, he’ll know.
Okay, so I needed a different approach. I took a steadying breath. “I’ll shoot straight, then. You said your memoir was different. What do you want to be different about your story? What impact do you want to have with it?”
He tapped the grounds into a steel moka pot, screwed it shut, and set it on the burner.
He turned his whole body to me this time, and I felt the entire weight of his attention. The intensity was almost too much—my pulse kicked at the way this man looked at me, looked through me, picking apart the carefully constructed exterior that had served as my armor on every job before this one.
“Lola, I must confess that I haven’t told you the whole truth about why you’re here.”
Behind him, the pot began to tick on the burner.
“So tell me,” I said, nearly breathless as Eze took a step toward me.
“You’re not here to write my book.”
“Then why am I here?”
A thin hiss rose from the stovetop, steam forcing its way up through the grounds.
“You’re here to help me solve my father’s murder.”
The moka pot boiled over.