The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

“This is it?” Claire asked.

Martin smiled. “Not exactly what you envisioned, is it?”

“Well, I…”

“You were expecting a little more brass and glass, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Claire replied. “I suppose I was.”

“Well, as they say, looks can be deceiving,” Martin said. “This is not just any house. It’s a safe house. No one gets in here without their identity first being authenticated.”

Martin drew Claire’s attention to one of several tall metal poles atop which sat a rectangular white box positioned at a downward angle. She watched as they turned slowly from left then right, panning the grounds.

“This place is as technologically advanced as it gets, from intruder-sensing perimeter security devices buried beneath the ground throughout the property to those day and night-vision cameras you see scanning us as we speak. As soon as I entered the driveway from the road and approached the gates, that camera zoomed in on my license plate and ran it through the DMV. The staff inside would have identified to whom the vehicle belongs even before I’ve come to a full stop.”

An eight-foot wall of wrought-iron fencing surrounded the property. On Martin’s left a camera whined, then turned in his direction. A speaker mounted in a stone column crackled to life. “Good afternoon, Mr. Belgrade.” The voice was courteous, the tone professional, yet undoubtedly all business. “Please speak into the microphone for voice print verification and identify your passenger.”

“Belgrade, Martin K. Security clearance FBB122903. My passenger is Dr. Claire Prescott. Mark Oyama is expecting us.”

“Thank you. Please wait,” the voice said. Seconds later the wheel-mounted security gates clicked open, rolled aside, and permitted them access to the grounds.

“Please proceed,” the voice said.

Martin drove through the gate and down the winding driveway. The lawns were perfectly manicured, lush and green, as though excruciating attention had been paid to each blade of grass. Tall trees lined the driveway like century-old sentinels. Landscaped flowerbeds adorned the lawn in tiered, scalloped rows. The house reminded Claire of a stately mansion, wedding-white with gingerbread molding and hourglass curtains, the windows flanked by gloss-black hurricane shutters. A large verandah surrounded the main floor of the home. Martin parked in front of the entrance and opened the side door of the Navigator. Maggy bounded out, barked, and charged playfully across the lawn.

The screen door opened. A man greeted them. “Good to see you again, Martin,” he said. “This must be the young lady you spoke about on the phone.”

“Indeed, she is,” Martin replied. “Dr. Claire Prescott, I’d like you to meet Mark Oyama, a good friend of mine and one of the finest special agents the FBI was ever unfortunate enough to lose to early retirement.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Oyama,” Claire said.

“Likewise,” Oyama replied. “But please call me Mark. I left the title behind when I left the Bureau, although it still comes in handy once in a while if I need to throw a little weight around.”

Maggy barked and ran to the porch, her tail wagging madly.

“Hey, Maggs!” Mark said as he kneeled to greet her. “How’s my good girl?”

Maggy pressed her body tightly against him and nudged her head under his hand. Mark smoothed her coat, scratched behind her ears. It was only a matter of seconds before the retriever lay sprawled on her back, having successfully negotiated her way into receiving a first-rate belly rub.

Martin laughed. “Looks like somebody missed you.”

Maggy lifted her head and licked his face. “I think you might be right,” Mark laughed. “Okay, come on, girl. Let’s go inside.” Maggy shuffled to her feet, pranced to the door, and pawed at the screen.

“I bet I know what you want,” Mark said as he opened the door. “Okay. Away you go. Justin’s downstairs. He’ll give you one of your treats.” Maggy barked happily, ran inside, and raced to the downstairs offices.

Mark held the door as Martin and Claire entered the house.

“My goodness,” Claire said, impressed by the period décor of the elaborately appointed home. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Or I suppose I should say, thank you Martin. Without his endowment this place would never have been possible.”

Claire turned to Martin. “Your endowment?”

Martin smiled. “I helped a little.”

“A little?” Mark said. “Let me put this into perspective for you, Dr. Prescott, since Martin is obviously too humble to admit it. This place, our organization itself, would never have happened without his philanthropy. Everyone who has ever been helped by us owes a direct debt of gratitude to our friend Mr. Belgrade here. The non-profit foundation he established pays the bills and all our expenses. But knowing Martin as I do, he probably forgot to mention that little tidbit of information, didn’t he?”

“Only one-hundred percent of what you just told me.”

“He’s a pretty quiet guy,” Mark joked. “He doesn’t like to call a lot of attention to himself.”

“Author… philanthropist,” Claire teased. “Any other surprises I should know about? You don’t preside over a small country in your spare time, do you?”

“Very funny,” Martin replied. “Thankfully, I’m in a position to help, so I do. It’s really that simple.”

“And we appreciate the help very much,” Mark said. He gestured towards the dining room. They seated themselves around a mahogany table so heavily polished that Claire could see her reflection in its surface as though she were looking into a mirror. “Now that you’re here, what can we do for you?”

From the car, Martin had brought with him a copy of his book, Heaven on Earth. He opened it to a picture taken in a farming field. “I need to know a few things about this picture.”

“Sure,” Mark said. “Like what?”

“Like who took it, and when and where it was taken.”

Mark nodded. “That shouldn’t be difficult to find out. We’ll have the information on file, either in hard copy or in our database. I’ll have Justin look it up for you. But somehow I feel you didn’t drive all the way from Santa Clara just to talk about this picture. I have a