Tongues of Fire

Day 7

I couldn't sleep very well. I wasn't even in the mood to do so. From five o'clock onwards I spent my time going back and forth on whether I should call or not. I eventually did. The lady from the photograph picked up. "Mr Sarpaulis", she said, even before I had the chance to say "Hello". "I'm so glad you phoned. Would it be okay if you dropped by today and met me? I think there's something you need to see." It was polite and unlike what I'd expected. I expected CIA agents swarming my house or being picked up by a black van on my way to work. Instead, this came, and I found it strange. "It'd be better if you stayed put. I'll send a car to collect you."

True. An hour later, a mustard-yellow Volkswagen pulled in in front of two fringe crossroads, a distance away from the kitchen window line from where my father could spot any activity. The last thing I wanted was for him to get worried. A tall and rangy fellow came out of the car and I thought he couldn't pass for more than twenty-three. He was wearing a white-cream shirt, jeans and Puma sneakers and looked like a young hip corporate executive.

'Mr Sarpaulis? Is it okay if I asked you to get in the car?'

I could pardon him the clumsiness of the question had I been certain of his good intentions, but it actually sounded creepy. He could've been just a nerd. I was having second thoughts.

'Do you know what this is about?' I managed to ask while approaching the door.

'I'm not at liberty to divulge anything for the time being', he replied, delivering this much-hackneyed line with such a blunt poker face that it got me even more worried. 'But it's big. Trust me.' A young terribilism could be accounted for this slip, but at least it showed a penchant for some level-playing field, and that released some of the tension.

He drove fast and furious. 'I'm trying to get you there as soon as possible.'

"Try and get me there safe, first and foremost", I thought. But then came more worrying small talk: "Did you sleep well, last night?"

'Why? Shouldn't I have?' He didn't answer. 'Are we going to Davies?'

'We're going to the Center.'

'The Solomon Center?'

'Yes.' And turned his wheel at a ninety degree angle curve and rocketed on the continuing road.

My geographical knowledge of the road to Davies was a bit lapse, but this road we were taking was not the way to Davies.

'Excuse-me, I thought you said we were going to the center.'

'Yes. Has something happened?

'This isn't the way to Davies.'

'Who said anything about Davies? I'm taking you to a secret compound.' He stared at me in the rear-view mirror and winked. I was driving with Ted Bundy.

It took us thirty minutes or so of shared silence which allowed me to spend restless thoughts on how I could escape this mess. But my mind was running in all directions and every time the sun rays blinded me through the windows, I thought the landscape was far too beautiful for anything bad to happen.

'How are you feeling? You must be happy with all this attention.' I wished he had said this a little earlier, when I was trapped all alone with him. Now that we were entering what looked like a student campus, full of life, with parks and centers, his remark was devoid of fizz.

'Where are we?' I asked.

'An annex of the Solomon Institute.' He parked the car and we entered through some swinging transparent doors.

The ground floor acted as a hospital wing. Then, on taking the lift to the third floor, I was greeted to passworded doors with safety warnings attached, and glass chambers requiring special clearance. Everything - from cubicles to rooms to chalkboards - were mostly made of glass, allowing a beautiful view onto the Californian hills that stretched beyond the collection of adjacent buildings, guarding the hospital.