JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE PARANOID
By
Michael Mallory

It was a little after two, which meant the lunch crowd had already left La Burrito, the Mexican dive on the lower level of the Encino strip mall that also houses my office, leaving me the only customer. I was waiting for the check and contemplating the pictures of the Virgin Mary and Selena on the wall when the tomato walked in. It wasn't easy for her. She had to squeeze her bulging, ripe, red sides through the glass-and-chrome door.

"Are you Dave Laurent?" she asked, approaching my booth. For a tomato, she had a great voice.

"Uh, yeah," I replied, somewhat dumbstruck.

"The receptionist at the dentist's office next door to yours said I could probably find you down here. I need an investigator. Can we go up to your office?"

I threw a ten on the table and escorted her out. As the girl in the tomato suit struggled up the concrete steps, I dashed ahead to unlock my door, and noticed that the gold letters spelling Law-Rent Investigations were beginning to flake off. You get what you pay for.

"I have to tell you," she said, while I fumbled the key, "you don't look like the image I had in my mind of a private investigator."

I'd heard that plenty of times before. Truth is, I look more like a funny dad from an Eggo commercial. Fortunately, they don't use looks as a criterion for a P.I. license.

It took both of us to shove her through the door. Once inside, she wriggled out of the tomato suit, under which she wore a bright red body stocking that left very little to the imagination. She was young, probably college age, with slightly kinky red hair and a freckled face that was striking and intelligent rather than beautiful in the California bimbo sense. She sat down in my client chair.

"I noticed your sign as I drove to work this morning," she said.

"You work in a tomato suit?" I asked. "Where's your workplace, on Vine?"

I thought it was funny, anyway.

"If you walk just a couple blocks down the street," she said, unsmiling, "you will also see people dressed like a hamburger patty, an onion, a pickle and a bag of fries, all promoting the new Burger Heaven that just opened up. My name is Caitlin Keaney and I'm really a journalist with the Valley Veritas."

"Aha," I muttered. The Valley Veritas was one of those smeary-ink alternative newspapers that sandwiched unbearably smug assaults on pop culture in between hard-core sex service ads.

Caitlin went on: "I'm doing an undercover investigation of the Burger Heaven chain. You know who owns it?"

"Billy Graham?" I said. It was just a guess.

"The Order of Hermetosophy," she said, indignantly. "You've heard of them, haven't you?"
[[ I have it on good authority that "Hermetosophy" is pronounced "Herm-a-TOSS-o-fee." -- Nefarious Editor (N.Ed.) a.k.a. Ned. ]]
Anyone who's been in Southern California for two quakes or longer knows about the Order of Hermetosophy, which is one of the oldest and hardiest of the pseudo-religious, self-help organizations that turned spiritual philosophy into a cash cow. Throughout the 1980s the Order was in the real estate business, buying up buildings in every one of the cities that hive together to make L.A. But over the past decade, a steady stream of lawsuits from former members coupled with the widely-reported deaths of two young initiates in the Hermetosophy detox program encouraged the organization to adopt a much lower profile.

"I've been investigating the Order for six months but I'm afraid they're finally on to me," she said. "I need someone they don't know to help me collect evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Of what Burger Heaven is really selling."

"And what is that?"

"I don't know yet," she confessed, "that's why I need help. We have to get a sample of the food from Burger Heaven."

Already it was we. "If I helped you, would I have to dress like a vegetable, too?" I asked.

She gave me a withering glare. "A tomato is a fruit."

"I knew that," I said, although I didn't. "Frankly, Ms. Keaney, what you're asking doesn't really sound all that challenging. Hiring a licensed investigator to get take-out seems unnecessary. Why not just have a friend do it?"

"First, it's not as easy as you think, trust me. Secondly, I don't want to put any personal friends at risk."

"Is the food really that bad?"

Her exasperated sigh would have done Oliver Hardy proud. "Just forget the whole thing," she said, rising and beginning to slither back into her tomato suit.

"Look, I'm sorry if --"

"No, forget it. I have to get back now anyway, before the managers get too suspicious. I just hope I wasn't followed here."

"Ms. Keaney, aren't you being a little too . . . how should I put this?"

"Paranoid?" she finished for me. "Let me tell you something about the Order of Hermetosophy: once the hierarchy has decided you're the enemy, they'll do whatever it takes to stop you."

"In other words, just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you."

"I'm wasting my time," she muttered. "Obviously you're not the right person to help me. Sorry to have disturbed you."

Okay, a woman dressed like a tomato interrupts my lunch, asks for help in some vague way, and gets mad when I ask the obvious question any investigator would, and yet I'm the one feeling embarrassed. Go figure. "Look, let me do this much for you," I said, opening the door for her to squeeze through, "I'll swing by Burger Heaven for dinner and casually check things out. How can I get in touch with you?"

"It's best you don't," she answered. "I'll get in touch with you." And without so much as a goodbye, she left.

Sheesh, things like this never happened to Barnaby Jones!

I had a hard time concentrating on work for the rest of the day, not that the work in question was all that exciting in the first place. Just a couple of insurance claims and a divorce case. A little before six I decided to wrap things up and head out. Like I'd promised Caitlin, I drove down to Burger Heaven.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no drive-through. The second was that the line of people waiting for food extended all the way out the door. The third was that it had the most enormous parking lot I'd ever seen for a fast food joint, which meant that despite the crowd, I had no trouble finding a parking space. Inside, the place actually smelled clean (I don't know how they managed that) and everywhere was the sound of canned harp music playing light rock standards, kitschy, but not unpleasant. A small army of young clerks in typically silly costumes -- white shirts with halo insignias, black cross-over ties, and those paper counterman hats that made one look like a full lieutenant in the Dork Brigade -- stood behind the counter. While waiting in line, I scanned the menu posted in lighted signs up above the workers' heads. It offered little in the way of variety: Heaven Burger, Jumbo Heaven Burger, Double Heaven Burger, and the super colossal Seventh Heaven Burger.

When my turn finally came, the cute, chipmunky young girl behind the register chirped: "Welcome to Burger Heaven, can I take your order?"

"Yeah, I'll have the Jumbo Heaven meal to go, please," I said.

"Sorry, sir, but we're not equipped to do take out," she said, cheerfully.

"Really?" I looked around and there were plenty of tables. Come to think of it, the place had twice as many tables as a normal burger place. "Okay, I guess I'll eat here."

The order came up in a flash and I carried it over to an empty table. The burger had an interesting smoky flavor, but other than that it was nothing to pray over. The fries were so-so, but the chocolate shake was the best I'd had in a long time. While I savored the shake I thought about Caitlin Keaney's claims, and decided they were groundless. Then I noticed the security cameras. To most patrons, they would have looked like decorations: round objects hanging from the ceiling that blended almost unnoticeably into the design of the restaurant. But I could tell what they really were. Furthermore, there were seven of them. Why does a fast food restaurant need seven security cameras?

I bussed my tray to the trash can and left, smiling back at the behemoth in a security guard costume who opened the door and entreated me to come back soon.

Once back at my apartment, I tried to put the whole bizarre matter out of my mind, but I couldn't. Even through the rerun of "I Dream of Jeannie" - my current passion - I was ogling Barbara Eden but thinking Caitlin Keaney.

The first thing I did when I arrived at the office the next morning was check my answering machine, hoping that Caitlin might have left a message, but in that I was disappointed. Well then, I'd just have to go down to Burger Heaven and talk to her there. And despite the fact that in some parts of L.A. walking is a punishable offense, I decided to hoof it.

I could see the costumed chorus from a block away, waving at passing cars and handing out fliers to people on the street. By the time I got up to them, the tomato doing a little soft shoe with the onion. Tapping her on the back of the costume, I said: "Pretty fancy dancing, lady." The tomato turned around and said, "Huh?"

It was not Caitlin Keaney. It was not even a woman.

"Oh, sorry," I told the guy, "I thought you were someone else. What happened to the other tomato?"

"No idea, I just got here," he said.

Puzzled, I went inside. It wasn't even 10:30, yet there must have been a hundred people waiting to get a burger and fries. What was even more surprising was the fact that I was actually looking forward to one of those burgers.

I ordered the same combo and found a table, and about half way through my meal I realized what a bonehead I was. I was supposed to be in on a conference call with Bob Lesher from Statewide Insurance over a job I was doing for them at 10:45. My growing obsession with Caitlin Keaney had actually caused me to forget paying work!

I wrapped the burger, minus the two bites I'd taken, in a napkin and carried it and the shake to the door. I was halfway out the door when somebody took hold of my arm. It was a security guard roughly the size of The Incredible Hulk.

"'Scuse me, sir, but you have to eat that here," he said, pointing at my burger.

"Yeah, well, I'm in a hurry, so I thought I'd just take the leftovers with me," I said, "but thanks." I started out the door again and this time was stopped.

"Sorry, sir," the guard said, "but Burger Heaven food cannot be taken off the premises."

"What are you talking about? That's nuts."

"It's the rules, sir," he said. Then leaning closer, he added: "I'm sure you don't want to make any trouble."

While I try to make a practice of not antagonizing people eight times my size, I was getting steamed. I was about to say as much when I remembered what Caitlin told me about obtaining the food sample: It won't be as easy as you think. I tried a different approach. "Look, I'm late for an appointment," I told the guard. "Does Burger Heaven own the parking lot?"

"Yes sir."

"Then that constitutes premises, so if you let me eat while I cross the parking lot, I promise to throw away anything that's left over when I get to the street." At times like these I am actually glad that I'm a recovering lawyer.

Mighty Joe Guard considered this for a moment then said, "Okay, let's go."

I bolted down the burger as I walked, and nearly choked, though by the time we had made it across the parking lot all that was left was a greasy wrapper and part of my shake, which I handed over to Mighty Joe.

"Thank you and come again, sir," he said, with a conspicuous grin.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to worry about Burger Heaven's peculiar policy. I jogged back to my office through the smoggy heat and made the conference call with one minute to spare.

It was only after my business with Bob was settled that I really started to wonder what the heck was going on at Burger Heaven. If Caitlin Keaney wasn't going to contact me, I'd better contact her.

I looked up the number for the Valley Veritas in the phone book and punched it in. "Veritas, good afternoon," a chipper female voice answered.

"Caitlin Keaney, please," I said. There was a short pause, then the voice said: "She's not here."

"Will she be in tomorrow?"

"I don't know. She was supposed to be in today, but no one's seen her."

"You wouldn't happen to have her home phone number, would you?"

"Sorry, but we can't give those out. Who is calling, please?"

I introduced myself and said that Caitlin had come to see me yesterday. The woman's voice got lower and more careful as she said: "Is this about the Burger Heaven story?"

"Yeah."

"Are you in the phone book, Mr. Laurent?"

"Well, yeah, but --"

"I'm going to have to call you back." The line then went dead. Within thirty seconds my phone rang. "Did you call the Valley Veritas a few minutes ago?" the same voice asked.

"Yes, I did. What's going on?"

"Sorry, it's just that we have to be careful. If you can hold for a moment, I'll give you to Mitchell Whitman."

Even before I could say Who? a man's voice was on the phone, like maybe he'd been listening in the whole time. "This is Mitchell Whitman, publisher of the Valley Veritas. Marie said you called about Caitlin. Do you have any information regarding her whereabouts?"

"No, I'm trying to find her myself."

"Why?"

I recounted Caitlin's tomato act for Whitman, adding the observation that he sounded concerned about her welfare, too.

"I am," Whitman replied. "Caitlin was supposed to meet with me last night, but she never showed up. I'm afraid something has happened to her."

"Have you thought about contacting the police?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Obviously you didn't read our expose of corruption in the LAPD in the March issue. It was a brilliant piece of investigative journalism, but it did not endear us to the thin blue line."

Truth is, I never read the Valley Veritas. I find papers like that more of an excuse for writers to write than for readers to read.

"I'm afraid there is only one clear conclusion to Caitlin's disappearance," Whitman continued, "they have her."

"They?"

"The Order of Hermetosophy. Look, I've already said more than I should have. You never know who might be listening in on the phone. If you don't have information about Caitlin, then I must hang up."

"Hold on," I said, "if it's a potential phone tap that worries you, how about if I just come down to your office?"

"Why are you so interested in Caitlin's well being?" Whitman asked, and the tone of suspicion was unmistakable.

"Because she came to me for help and I pretty much blew her off, and I feel bad about it, okay?" That was close to the truth. I saw no reason to add that I couldn't get her lively blue-gray eyes and melodious voice out of my mind.

Whitman grudgingly agreed to meet me and I set out immediately.

It took about a half-hour to find the offices of the Valley Veritas, which were holed up in a dunky storefront office just off Van Nuys Boulevard. Inside was a lobby of sorts, consisting of a long counter and a couple pieces of thrift store furniture. A young woman seated behind the counter asked what I wanted, and I gave her my name.

"Oh, you're the fellow who called about Caitlin," she said, in hushed tones. "I'm Marie, I talked to you on the phone. You know, I tried to tell Caitlin that picking on the Order of Hermetosophy was too risky, but . . ." She shrugged, then led me into the back room, which was alive with milling people and ringing phones, and pointed to a youngish, heavyset, balding man with round glasses and a twinky little moustache, who was bending over a desk looking at photos. Mitchell Whitman in the flesh.

After offering me a handshake that could have been battered and served with chips, Whitman invited me into his private office, which looked like a closet stuffed with a dusty sofa and a desk. "Are you wired?" he asked, cautiously.

"I had some coffee earlier, but . . . oh, you mean, am I carrying a bug? Of course not. Jeez, you people are paranoid."

"One can't be too careful where the Order of Hermetosophy is concerned," he said. "We are on the verge of blowing the lid off of the Order, and I'm afraid they know it."

"Is the Order really that frightened of scandal?" I asked.

He looked at me gravely. "Mr. Laurent, the word scandal barely describes what we have uncovered. We have in our files reports of kidnappings, extortion, breaking and entering, assault, even a suspected murder, all carried out under the auspices of the Order of Hermetosophy. The Burger Heaven connection was supposed to be the gravy, but Caitlin intimated that she had stumbled onto something even bigger. God, I wish she would at least call in, do something to let us know she's all right."

"Have you sent someone over to Caitlin's house to see if she's there?" I asked.

"No, I haven't," Whitman answered, the idea seeming to take him by surprise.

"Perhaps we should pay a visit, then.”

Since Whitman's vintage Volkswagen beetle looked like it would not have made it to the corner and back without falling apart, we took my car. Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a demi-mansion on a heavily-wooded street off Coldwater Canyon. "The investigative reporting business must be good," I commented.

"Caitlin lives in the guest house in back," Whitman said, lumbering up the driveway. From a distance the little house looked cosy and inviting, but as we approached I noticed that the front door was ajar. "Hold it," I said, stopping Whitman. I called Caitlin's name, but received no answer. I didn't expect to. "Stay back," I told him, then quietly snuck up to the front window of the guest house, crouched down and peered in. Even though I had anticipated what I was now seeing through the window, I didn't like it. "Come and look at this," I called to Whitman, rising from my crouch. Whitman trotted up as I elbowed the front door open, peeked inside and muttered: "Holy Batshit."

The whole place had been trashed. Every drawer and every cupboard had been emptied, every piece of furniture overturned and slashed with a knife, with the stuffing scattered around the place like phony snow. "Her notes!" Whitman shouted, stepping over debris to get to what was left of her workspace. A monitor lay smashed on the floor while the CPU had been dismembered chip by chip. "They got her computer disks, all her notes, everything she'd learned about the Order of Hermetosophy. They've taken it all, and they've taken Caitlin, too! That means the Veritas office is next. What am I going to do?"

"How about hiring a security guard to watch the place at night."

"We don't have the funds for that," he replied. "I don't suppose I could talk you into doing it."

"No, you couldn't," I said, "so my next suggestion is that you get a camera and stay there all night, and if somebody breaks in, take as many pictures as you can before you run out the door and head for the nearest police station."

"I think I can get somebody to stay," Whitman said, "but what do we do about Caitlin?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't think we can do it here. I'll take you back."

"But shouldn't we look around more carefully?" Whitman pressed. "Maybe she left some clue that will tell us where they took her?"

"Look, Mitchell," I sighed, "I met Caitlin only once, for about ten minutes, but that was long enough to tell me that she isn't the type to stand around calmly while somebody trashes her place."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if somebody really took her, they did it first and then came back and ransacked her house. Any clue she left would have been discovered by her abductors.”

It took awhile, but I finally got Whitman back in the car and we drove back to the Veritas offices, where I dropped him off. Then I headed back for my office, trying to think of what to do next. If I were Jim Rockford or Joe Mannix or Frank Cannon, I'd know immediately. I'd have the commercial break in which to think about it. While I was still trying to come up with an idea, I saw my friendly neighborhood Burger Heaven coming up and made a quick turn into the driveway. Too many strange things were happening to discount Caitlin's claims, and if I was worth my salt, I'd get a sample of one of those burgers and have it tested. As I parked, I even tried to pretend that I wasn't craving a burger and a malt.

I got my usual combo and then on a whim asked the squeaky clean clerkette to add on a Little Angel Meal too. (Oh, right, like I'm the only adult who collects those neat little toys you get in kid's meals.) As it turned out, the toy was pretty disappointing - a cheesy plastic cherub in a robe and a ballcap. Not much collector value. I stuck it in my pocket, hoping that it was permissible to leave the premises with it.

I was about to toss the little plastic bag on my tray when an idea struck. I looked around to gauge the sight-lines of the restaurant's two guards, one of whom was my pal Mighty Joe, and then checked out the positions of the video cameras. Angling myself away from the prying eyes as best I could, I used some sleight-of-hand to slip the kiddie burger out of the bun and into my lap. Then I ate the empty bun as though it were full, while secretly slipping the patty into the bag and stashing it in my pocket. After munching the bun I got up and carried my tray to the trash bin, dumping the paper and leftover fries. Turning around, I walked right into Mighty Joe.

"Didn't clean your plate, sir," he said. "Shouldn't order so many fries if you're not going to eat them."

"Does that mean I have to give this back?" I asked, holding up the plastic cherub.

Mighty Joe smiled. "Naw, go ahead and keep it. Have a nice day."

"You're a prince," I said, grinning. I made my way across the parking lot, expecting at any time to hear an alarm go off and be wrestled to the ground by the burger police. But I made it to my car without incident and sped back to the office as fast as I could. Once there, I tried to figure out where to get the burger patty tested. The police lab, of course, would have better things to do. A university? Maybe, but how would I go about approaching them? After pondering for some time, I realized it was time for desperate action. Picking up the phone, I called the law firm of Wachs, Sachs, Everett and Hansen, my former place of employment. Phil Hansen was my best bet, since he was the only partner who wished me luck as the door was hitting me in the butt on my way out.

Placing the call and talking my way past Stacia, Phil's pitbull of a secretary, I said: "Hey, Phil, it's Dave Laurent," as cheerfully as I could.

"Dave! How the hell are ya?" he shouted back, and it sounded genuine.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, then I got down to business. "If I wanted to get a piece of food tested to find out what it really is, where would I go?"

"Geez, we had a case not long ago where we needed to get some liquid analyzed. There was a place out in Malibu, what the hell was its name . . . hang on, Dave." I heard the phone receiver drop onto the desk as Phil relayed my question to Stacia. Less than thirty seconds later, he came back with the answer (so she's an efficient pitbull). "Dave? It's called Pacific Labs. How's that for an original name?" He gave me the address and after a few more pleasantries, we hung up.

I raced the sun to the ocean, won by maybe twenty minutes. Pacific Labs was not in the Colony proper, but tucked away in a clunch of nondescript buildings off the Coast Highway. The guy in charge was a Buck Henry-type named Roland North, who seem amused as I explained I was a private investigator working on a case (which technically I wasn't since no one was paying me for my time and trouble), and that I needed a sample analyzed. "Are we looking for poison?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I told him. "I think we're looking for an animal that should not be sold over the counter in a hamburger. Rat, dog, kangaroo, something like that."

"Oh, well, you understand that identifying an animal from its ground meat is not something that can be done overnight. When do you need the results?"

ASAP, I told him.

"Hmm. Well, we should at least be able to tell you whether or not it is beef in fairly short order."

I left only half of the patty with him and kept the other half, just in case, then headed for home in the red dusk. I'd no sooner gotten inside my apartment when there was a knock on the door. Opening it, I found a distraught looking Marie, from the Valley Veritas.

"Mr. Laurent, something terrible has happened, you've got to come!" she shouted, leading me towards the street.

"Where are we going?" I asked, which a moment later I realized was the wrong question entirely. What I should have asked was: Excuse me, but how do you know where I live? I didn't get the chance, since at that moment someone very strong grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms, while somebody else pulled a dark cloth sack over my head and tightened it around my neck. "Hey!" I shouted, trying to struggle, but whoever these guys were, they were pros. My hands were bound behind me and my feet tied together, then I was shoved into a car. This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen to P.I.'s in real life, that's why God made television!


We'd driven for a few minutes when I heard Marie's voice ask, "Can you breathe?"

"Barely," I said through the cloth, at which point powerful fingers loosened the string around my neck.

"Thanks," I said. "So, let me guess, Marie: you're really a member of the Order of Hermetosophy."

"I'm still an acolyte," she confirmed, "though this should help me advance."

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll get a lot of angel points for kidnapping," I said.

"Go ahead and be snide," she replied, "but don't assume you'll make me angry. The Order teaches us to rise above common emotions like anger or jealousy so we can ascend to a higher plane of pure, spiritual intellect. Besides, I had to listen to so much trash-talk about the Order at the Valley Veritas office that nothing you could say would upset me."

"So you took the job at the paper solely to spy on them?"

"'Spy' is not a word the Order acknowledges," she answered. "I was an observer. We learned that the Veritas was preparing a hateful piece on us, so we took action. This is nothing unusual. We put ourselves everywhere there's a potential enemy."

"I see," I replied, feeling a sharp temperature drop in my spine. "Mind telling me where we're going?"

"You will find out soon enough."

"Are Caitlin and Whitman there already?"

Marie laughed, brightly. In other circumstances it would have been a pleasant sound. "Caitlin we had to stop, she was a negative force," she said, "but Mitchell is no threat. Behind all that crusading journalist posturing he's really a weak and frightened man. He'll drop his attack on the Order after he receives a letter tomorrow instructing him to leave us alone, or else."

"Or else what?" I asked.

"Or else he will never see Caitlin Keaney again. He's secretly in love with her, you know."

"Swell," I said, trying to banish from my mind the image of a love scene featuring Nicole Kidman and a young Charles Laughton. "So you're willing to kill for the Order, too?"

Marie laughed again. "I said nothing about killing. A person can never be seen again and still be alive. I haven't seen my family for eight years and don't expect to ever again, but I'm not dead."

We were increasing in speed now, which meant we must have jumped on a freeway. "Can you at least tell me what's really in the burgers at Burger Heaven?"

"Only the freshest of ingredients," she said brightly, as though reading commercial copy, "which is why Burger Heaven has become the fastest growing restaurant chain in the world. Want to know how much profit we've made in our first year?"

"A couple million dollars?" I guessed.

"Try two billion."

Holy Greenbacks, Batman! Two billion dollars a year going into the coffers of the Order of Hermetosophy. No wonder they were taking such extreme measures to keep anyone from upsetting their plans. What was worse was the realization that even now, bound and propped up between two thugs in a car with a bag over my head, not having any idea what was going to happen to me, I was craving one of those damned hamburgers! This was almost as bad as quitting smoking.

At that moment the thunderbolt struck, and I was pretty sure I'd figured out the Big Secret behind Burger Heaven.

"Out of questions?" Marie chirped.

"No, I have one more," I said. "Where do you get all that nicotine to put in the hamburgers?" Marie's gasp told me I'd figured correctly. "I mean, you must need a lot of it for all those millions of burgers you're serving. How do you get it in that quantity without being detected?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Marie spat.

"The change in your voice tells me you do," I said. "You get people addicted to your hamburgers - literally - so they keep coming back again and again and again. And next year, I'll bet Burger Heaven has to raise its prices to keep up with the cost of expansion, and raise them again the year after that. But that won't make any difference in the number of customers, will it? They'll be coming in droves. Really, Marie, why didn't the Order just launch a cigarette brand and save itself the start-up cost of opening restaurants?"

"Cigarettes are unnatural," she replied, in a robotic voice. "They are a sign of weakness which a free, healthy body does not need. And I'm through answering your questions!”

We rode on in stony silence for another half-hour before the car stopped then turned a corner. We were back on surface streets now, but where? Before too much longer, we parked and the engine shut off. "Get him out," Marie commanded, and one of the thugs yanked me out of the car. It took both of them to carry me up a steep incline, after which they dropped me on a hard surface. Then the bag was pulled off my head, and the first thing I smelled was the ocean. We were on a boat - no, make that a yacht, a big one - somewhere in the harbor. The length of the drive would imply Long Beach, but since the lights of the Queen Mary were nowhere in sight, my guess was we were across the bridge in San Pedro.

"Your ship?" I asked Marie, drinking in the salty, fishy air.

"It's the Order's ship," she replied. "It's used for teaching."

"Teaching what?"

"Teaching people to mind their own business," snarled one of the thugs, a young knife-scarred, shaven-headed gangbanger who, while only couple inches over five feet, was built like a truck and carried an attitude that would frighten bears away from food.

"Now, now, Ricky," Marie cautioned, "anger is a negative force. Take him below."

Ricky and the other thug - who looked the more controllable of the two - carried me down a steep staircase to the deck below, which contained cramped sleeping quarters. I thought we would stop here until I was pushed through a hatch that lead to a storage room. At least that's what the space was designed to be. In the dim light, it looked more like a makeshift prison, with two closet-sized, barred cells, each outfitted with a mattress, a plain wooden stool and a bucket. One was empty, and in the other was Caitlin Keaney. She looked tired, but I could still see plenty of fight left in those eyes.

Ricky snipped off the nylon cable ties that were cutting into my wrists and ankles, and a sudden rush of blood numbed my limbs. Once unbound, I was thrown into the cell with Caitlin and the barred door was locked.

"This will be your home for awhile, Dave," Marie said. "We will feed you and take care of your basic needs. But the ship is leaving port tomorrow and it will not be back for quite some time, so I hope you didn't have any important meetings coming up."

"What's our destination?" I asked.

"Enlightenment," Marie answered, beaming. "Your teacher will arrive tomorrow morning and we'll set out after lunch. Classes in teachings of Hermetosophy will begin every morning at seven and within a month, you will have come around to the rightful thought."

"I've got a better idea," I said, "just shoot me now and save your fuel."

"You will change, I promise," Marie said, with a confident smile. Then she called her thugs to heel and the three of them headed up top.

When they were gone, Caitlin said, "So, hotshot, what brings you here?" I just love warm welcomes.

"Would you believe a crooked travel agent?" I cracked, and she actually smiled. "I decided to follow-up on your investigation and guess what I discovered? Just because you're paranoid --"

"Doesn't mean they're not really out to get you," she finished, seating herself in the corner of the cramped cell. "What's ironic is that I'd heard rumors about this kind of piracy before, but I didn't really believe them. They sounded too bizarre even for the Hermetosophists. So what do we do now?"

"Beats me," I sighed. "This is something of a first for me. The most dramatic thing I've done as an investigator is hide a camcorder in a towel and shoot video of someone who's supposed to be in traction working out at the gym. I've never had to break out of prison before." I looked over at the empty cell across from us. "But I am wondering why they jammed us in here together. They could just as well have put me over in that one."

"It's part of the way they break down your will," Caitlin answered. "They encourage you to become dependent on another person, and once you have, they remove that person from your life, leaving you vulnerable and pliable. They do that with new recruits, assigning them to a teacher, and then once the bond has been made they take the teacher away. They're probably expecting us to become so emotionally dependent on one another down here that splitting us up would be a form of torture.”

I was thinking, hard. "What would happen if we did the opposite of what they're expecting?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be alarmed," I muttered, "this is only a test." Then in the loudest voice I could muster, I screamed at her: "This is all your fault, you Irish cow! I wouldn't be in here if it wasn't for you!"

Caitlin's eyes flared with shocked anger. But within seconds, Ricky's voice came through the hatch: "Hey! Knock it off down there!" So hothead Ricky was our guard. That was perfect. I smiled and then whispered my plan into Caitlin's ear. With a look of malicious glee, she nodded. Being a sport, I let her go first.

"And what the hell good are you!" she shouted with such force that the breeze ruffled my hair. "I came to you for help! I should have gone to a goddamned Boy Scout lodge instead!"

"I wish you had!" I screamed back. "I don't even know why I'm here! This is between you and that criminal cult you're investigating!"

"Shut up!" Ricky screamed down through the hatch. But instead of quieting, we only got louder and more abusive. I started slapping my hands together to approximate the sound of a fight, while Caitlin picked up a stool and began throwing it around the cell. The clincher was a shriek from her that must have tumbled Davy Jones out of his locker.

Ricky tore the hatch open and leapt down the ladder into the storage room. Meanwhile, Caitlin huddled in a corner, as though injured, and started to sob. "What did you do to her?" Ricky demanded.

"What did I do to her?" I shouted back, "why not ask what you did to her, shorty!"

"What did you call me?" he growled, menacingly.

"Where'd Marie find you, anyway, the Lollipop Guild?"

Just as I was hoping, Ricky's weakness was his height. He charged the cell door and reached through the bars, trying to get me. "You're a dead man!" he shouted.

"And you're a musclebound midget who can't take a leak without permission from Madam Marie. You're not going to do anything to me, you shrimp, because you don't have the authority."

Ricky's face was now bright purple. He pulled his keys out of his pocket so violently that most of the pocket came with it. Wrenching the key into the lock, he ripped open the door and came at me. I prayed that Caitlin was up to her end of the deal.

For all of his bulk, Ricky was fast. He took a murderous swing at my face, which I managed to duck, but there was nowhere for me to go to avoid being grabbed by him and slammed against the wall, so hard that the entire boat rocked. I was still waiting for the flash of stars to fade when Caitlin sprung up behind him and brought the wooden stool down on his head with the force of a rock crusher. For all that, Ricky didn't fall, he only sank down on one knee. But that was enough of a break to allow us to leap out of the cell and slam the barred door shut. Ricky had been good enough to leave the key in the lock, and as soon as he realized he was being locked up, he charged the door again, yelling like a crazy man.

We backed away. "You okay?" Caitlin asked me.

"Fine," I groaned. Truth was, I still had slight double vision.

The din had caused Marie and the other thug to appear in the hatch. Caitlin and I hid back in the shadows and watched as they climbed down the ladder and ran to the cel, just in time to see Ricky pull himself to his feet. While they confronted their groggy comrade, we made a dash for the ladder, but our moving blurs must have registered in the peripheral vision of the thug, who lunged for us. Caitlin made it through the hatch, but the thug grabbed my ankle and started to pull me back down. I nearly lost the hold I had on the top of the hatch, when Caitlin reappeared on deck carrying a bucket. "Here, catch this!" she cried, emptying the bucket over the thug. Inside were three weighty king crabs with the biggest claws I'd ever seen. One crab landed on top of the thug's head, then slid down to his nose, where it grabbed on like a bull's ring, while another lighted on his shoulder, where it calmly tried to take a chunk out of his ear. The third had an iron grip on the crotch of his pants. That was probably the one that forced him let go of me.

Once free, I sprung up through the hatch and slammed it shut. "Think you could find a screwdriver?" I asked Caitlin, who dashed off. She returned a few seconds later with a big one, which I jammed in between the hatch and the frame. I knew it wouldn't hold forever, but it might give us a chance to go get help. Screams and pounding were now coming from below, and the founders of the Order of Hermetosophy would have been appalled at the language coming from Marie.

Caitlin and I sprinted off the yacht and ran to the closest harborside restaurant, where we phoned the police. Then we went back to the dock to wait. The cops showed up at the same time as the harbor patrol, and for a while it was touch and go as to whether they would believe our story. But when the police pulled open the hatch and got Marie and the thugs out, then discovered that Ricky had an outstanding warrant for his arrest, the tide began to turn our way. When the cuffs appeared, Marie suddenly turned state's witness, decrying how she was only following orders and rattling off enough names to gladden the hearts of a Senate Sub-Committee. How mightily the faithful tumble in order to save their own acolyte butts.

After Caitlin and I had answered all their questions, the police were good enough to drive us back to L.A., since neither of us had brought our cars (not to mention our free wills) down to San Pedro. On the way back I told Caitlin about her apartment, and she accepted the news with resignation. "It's the risk you take in my kind of work," she said. Man, am I glad I'm only a private investigator!

It was nearly two in the morning when I finally got home, and there was a message on my phone machine from Roland North at Pacific Food Labs. "Bad news, I'm afraid, Mr. Laurent," the recorded voice said. "We started a preliminary test on that sample you brought us and immediately found traces of nicotine. Since nobody would be stupid enough to put nicotine in a hamburger, I have to assume that the sample was contaminated through proximity to smoke. We will need another one before we can continue."

I smiled. Then I crashed.

Compared to my night in San Pedro, the rest of the week was downright boring, at least until Friday afternoon when Caitlin showed up. "Hi, hotshot," she said, smiling. "I just thought you'd like to know that the federal prosecutors have started looking into the Order of Hermetosophy and they don't much like what they're finding."

"Whitman should be dancing a jig at the chance to break the story."

"Actually, when I learned that Mitchell had rolled over under pressure from the Order, I told him what he could do with his phony little operation and took the story to the Times. They're interested in a book, too."

"That's great"

"Yeah, and I could stand to swim in the mainstream for a change. Anyway, I wanted to come by and say thanks."

"My pleasure, in an odd sort of way."

"And also ask if you had any plans for dinner."

"Are you asking me for a date, Caitlin?"

"Call it what you want, hotshot, but if you dare suggest we go get a burger, you'll never see me again."

I zipped my lips.

Later that night, I couldn't remember if I'd locked my office door. But you know what? I didn't care.
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Michael Mallory is a Derringer winning author of some fifty short stories, including the "Amelia Watson" series. His book, "The Adventures of the Second Mrs. Watson," has just been released by Deadly Alibi Press.