"No," Gustavo answers, standing up to depart. "Unfortunately, we have wasted each other's valuable time. Good evening."
The attendant regards Gustavo without a change of expression and flips the signal for the next person in line to approach her cubicle.
Gustavo scans the parking area and nearby streets as he swiftly enters his car. There is no sign of the jeep or anything else suspicious. Erring on the safe side, he meanders down Sunset Boulevard instead of heading directly home. Constantly checking his rear view mirrors, Gustavo travels many miles west, through the legendary strip full of nightclubs and restaurants in West Hollywood, and the exclusive neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills. Still rattled, though believing he is moving about undetected, Gustavo drives north on Interstate 405 and east on Mulholland Drive, slithering atop the mountain divide between the Los Angeles basin and valley. He stops several times and changes directions before finally reaching southbound Highway 101 and exiting at Franklin Avenue en route to his apartment. He skips the Spanish building's car lot and opts to park along Normandie Avenue by a palm tree that partially obstructs the streetlight beside it.
Inside his apartment, Gustavo lays the box at the foot of his bed, prepares chamomile tea, and changes into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He rumbles through a box in his closet, finds an old mobile phone, and plugs it into his desktop computer to charge it and sync it with his updated contacts.
Once calmed by two mugs of hot tea, Gustavo swells with sorrow, realizing his recollections from observing people at the observatory may be lost forever. Passcode protected, he perks up with a glint of hope that the masked man might have discarded it in the dirt upon learning he could not access the phone contents. This is unlikely, Gustavo tells himself, but possible. He writes himself a reminder note to contact the observatory personnel in the morning. He also perks up as he assures himself that the vast majority of what he astonishingly witnessed-the energy fields with the strangers-is firmly lodged in his brain.
Gustavo sits on his bed, leans the weighty package against his thigh, and tears the tape sealing the top of the box with a pair of scissors. The contents, at least three feet in length, are encased in layers of plastic bubble wrap. He snips the pieces of tape without destroying the wrap, which he finally unfolds, careful not to touch and put his fingerprints on what he initially fears is likely the barrel of some type of firearm.
As the truth is revealed, Gustavo gasps. The luster of what appears to be precious metals and sparkling jewels ricochets the beams from his ceiling light. He immediately thinks of a magic wand-perhaps a Hollywood prop for a flamboyant sorceress or wizard in an epic fantasy movie. The base of the wand is coated with various silver-like metals. A cobra, with her or his head flattened and ready to strike, emerges at the top from neck-band collars of inset stones that mimic diamonds and emeralds. The serpent, scaled with golden coloring, has violet eyes. Onyx-like gemstones are embedded in the faux eye markings enigmatically displayed on the back of the cobra's hood.
"A bejeweled cane," he speculates aloud, twisting it in the light, still careful not to press any part of his fingers or skin on it. "Heavy. Obviously fake, though damn realistic. A big budget production, to be sure. Or is the value sentimental? A family heirloom? An ancestral gift intended for one's descendants?"
Gustavo rewraps the wand, tapes it back inside the layers of bubble wrap, and slides it back into the box and under his bed. Excited, he searches images on his computer until he can barely keep his eyes open. Looking up "cobra de capello," he finds that it is a term of Portuguese origin, translating essentially as "cobra with hood." It is associated primarily with research studies, a few dissertations and articles, and scientific pieces on snakes. A professional mixed martial arts fighting league, based in Las Vegas, bears the name too.
Tumbling into his bed, Gustavo has just enough strength to flick off the lights before his head hits the pillow and he sinks into sleep.
12
Dash
Aleksey pays for his drinks. Instead of leaving the Sky Beacon lounge, he moseys around the room, pretending to be absorbed by the night views of the San Francisco bridges and skyline. Backing up, to frame a picture with his cell phone, he nudges the table with the mystery couple.
"Please forgive me," Aleksey says, making eye contact with both the man and the blond woman.
"You almost spilled our drinks," the man protests.
"I regret my clumsiness and ask your pardon."
"Slow down, young man," the woman says, lifting her eyebrows. "You are excused."
As soon as Aleksey walks out of their sight range, he dashes to the stairwell and phones Zachary as he sprints down the spiraling steps.
"Mayday!" Aleksey declares on the message after Zachary does not answer the rings. "Get out of there!"
Aleksey reaches the ninth floor and bolts down the hallways. He reaches his and Zachary's hotel room and bursts inside with his pistol lifted in his hands.
The room is empty.
DOUGLAS REFASTENS HIS kilt with one hand, not daring to drop his eyes or gun barrel from Zachary's body.
"Finally caught," Zachary says, repeating Douglas's words. "You used the word finally just now. Very odd."
"You thought you were invincible?" Douglas asks. "Who knows how many johns are out there-many, like me, pretending to be gay-trying to snag you and just waiting for you to slip up."
"Lucky you, Douglas. So you have been at this a long time?"
"No, not really, but long enough to hook you."
"You might succeed, but it is too early to claim me as a prize. You have some work to do. Either pull the trigger or figure out how to get me out of this hotel room where every hallway has live security cameras."
Douglas pulls his phone out of a compartment lined inside his kilt.
"I've got him in my talons," Douglas says into his phone. "He is not moving a muscle, but you guys should hurry on up here."
Zachary's phone rings. Instinctively, Douglas's eyes drop to Zachary's front pants pocket. Zachary unleashes a disabling kick to Douglas's groin, followed immediately by a side strike to Douglas's neck using the ulna bone of his forearm. Knocked out cold without firing a shot, Douglas collapses onto a heap on the floor.
Zachary snatches Douglas's gun and tucks it into the waistband of his pants, grabs his own shirt and shoes and bounds out of the hotel room. Guessing that the men Douglas called will be utilizing the stairwell to avoid security cameras, Zachary joins a small group of people stepping into an elevator. While kneeling down to tie the laces on his shoes, he scans the other occupants, focusing on items in their hands and anything they could be hiding under their clothes. A man in a sports jacket is the only person inside the elevator who concerns him. The man is staring rigidly ahead, apparently taking no notice of Zachary or any other passengers.
The elevator stops on the third level, but no one makes an attempt to exit. Just as the doors are about to smash shut, Zachary inserts his hand and steps out of the elevator. The man in the sports jacket leaves the elevator too.
"My ring is missing," Zachary fibs to the occupants of the elevator. "It must have fallen off."
Zachary drops to his knees as if he is searching the carpet. The man in the sports coat watches him and makes no effort to walk away. The elevator doors begin closing again. Zachary crawls back inside the elevator chamber.
He looks back just in time to see the man in the sports jacket glowering as the doors slam shut.
13
Franklin House
As he does every morning, Gustavo wakes gazing across Franklin Avenue at the landmark mansion illuminated by the dawn. His bed faces tall Spanish Colonial windows which precisely frame the Mayan-inspired and historic home designed by Lloyd Wright, son of architectural genius Frank Lloyd Wright, in 1926. A broad row of steps climb the hillside, evoking an ascent to a shrine, leading to a mysterious copper-gated entrance overshadowed above by dramatic jaw-like protrusions of patterned concrete block from a pristine rectangular form. It remains a spectacularly bold structure today and Gustavo imagines the enormous shock it must have elicited from Los Angeles residents and tourists upon its completion almost a century ago.
Gustavo is also fascinated by the Franklin House's interior and fables. The forbidding exterior shelters a charming courtyard, lush with flowers, vines, plants, and trees. This roofless center welcomes fresh air and sunshine while residents swim in the pool, entertain around a fire pit, and listen to the trickling of a fountain. Numerous shows have been filmed in both its indoor and outdoor rooms. Stars from Hollywood's so-called Golden Age reportedly fell in love there, started feuds, settled scores, and agreed to new motion picture deals. At least one writer claims its secret underground room was the brutal, body-severing murder site of a young woman named Elizabeth Short-known as The Black Dahlia-by the home's owner in 1947.
Gustavo remembers dreaming about auras and his self-portrait. He feels hopeful. He is ready to spend hours in his studio exploring and experimenting. As he yawns and stretches, memories of the attack in Griffith Park and his experience at the police station seep back into his thoughts. In denial, Gustavo tries to convince himself that he must have misinterpreted the entire episode. He will contact the observatory this morning and may even get his phone back. He thinks he also has a decent shot at eventually finding the production studio that owns the adorned cane.