The Straw Men 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead, Blood of Angels. Michael Marshall
away from the main road and toward a dense stand of trees. As we rounded them, the surface abruptly changed. From two worn lines in the scrub it switched to narrow but immaculate blacktop. I turned quickly in my seat, and saw that the main road was now invisible, obscured behind the trees.
‘Cunning,’ I said.
‘Nothing is left to chance at The Halls,’ Chip intoned. ‘Those who choose to make their homes there can count on the very highest standards of privacy.’
The path turned back away from the river, winding behind an outcrop to follow a steep course up a gully, curving further and further around to remain obscured from the main road. Within a few minutes it was hard to believe that the highway had ever existed. Somebody had put genuine thought into The Halls. I was mildly impressed. ‘How long has this place been here?’
‘Development started seven years ago,’ Chip said, peering through the windshield against the rain. ‘Just a shame you’re not going to see it in better weather. You get a good snowfall up here, you’re going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven.’
‘Have you sold many?’
‘Not a one. There’s only ten home sites, and they’re in no hurry to fill the last few. Be honest with you, their leaflet does them no favours. I’ve told them they should have some pictures on it.’
We were approaching the top of a rise now, having climbed at least five hundred feet in a long series of zigzags.
‘None of the other realtors I talked to seemed to know about it.’
Chip shook his head. ‘It’s our exclusive. Leastways, it is now.’
He winked at me, and for just a second I got a glimpse of the man Mr Farling might be when he shut his door behind him at night. I turned away, suddenly sure that it had been a good decision not to introduce myself by my real name. I got the feeling that Chip might have recognized the name Hopkins sooner than he would that of a dead Los Angeles architect, however many movies the latter’s buildings had been in.
A gate now became visible, as we turned a final bend. It was made not of wood, but of very large pieces of mountain rock, and sat on the top of a small rise, so that what lay beyond was not visible. As we drew closer, I saw that the words ‘The Halls’ had been handcarved into it, in the same typeface they’d used on their sales sheet.
‘This is it,’ Chip chirped, superfluously.
On the other side of the rise the road turned sharply left. I got an impression of a range of higher peaks half a mile away, but this was obscured by another bank of trees. Behind them was a fence that stretched off in both directions. The fence was very high, hiding everything that lay beyond. The rain was coming on harder, and the sky looked black fit to burst.
‘The course is over the other side,’ Chip said, switching seamlessly onto autopilot. ‘Nine hole, Nicklaus père et fils design, bien sûr. As they say – who can beat a pair of Jacks? Naturally it’s under cover at this time of year, and who needs it – with the Thunder Fall and Lost Creek runs barely minutes away? Imagine the convenience of world-class outdoor facilities, only a short drive from homes to delight the most discerning and sophisticated buyer.’
Indeed, I thought. And imagine me poking a finger up your nose.
‘This is the entrance compound right here,’ Chip said. A clump of low wooden buildings became visible, looming out of the murk. ‘Club room, non-smoking bar, and a fine restaurant.’
‘Have you eaten there?’
‘No. But I gather it’s, uh, extremely fine.’
He pulled the car over to park in a space to one side of the entrance to the building, alongside a row of very expensive cars. We got out, and he led me to the door. I tried to look around, to get a sense of the rest of the development, but the visibility was shot and we were moving quickly because of the rain now drumming down onto every horizontal surface.
‘Fucking rain,’ Chip muttered quietly. He noticed my surprise and shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry. Realtor’s worst enemy.’
‘What – worse than Hispanic neighbours?’
He laughed uproariously, clapped me on the back, and shepherded me through the door.
Inside, all was calm. To the left stretched a kind of club room, leather chairs around dark wood tables. It was empty. Down the end was a window, which on any other day would have afforded a doubtless stunning view. Today it was just a grey rectangle. To the right was a large fireplace, in which a well-behaved fire crackled. Very quietly in the background was the sound of Beethoven, one of the Sonatas for Violin and Piano. The reception desk was a smooth line of good wood, and on the wall behind it hung a piece of ‘art’. As we stood, waiting for someone to respond to the buzzer Chip had rung, I reached inside my jacket and pressed a button on my cell phone. Assuming there was service out here, Bobby’s phone would ring. We’d arranged that I’d do this if I’d found what I was looking for.
I had.
The induction process took half an hour. A slim and attractive woman of early middle age, augmented by many, many dollars’ worth of hairstyling, sat us in the lounge and explained the glories The Halls had to offer. She was dressed in an immaculate grey suit and had bright little blue eyes and good skin, so I guess everything she said had to be true. She didn’t give her name, which I thought was odd. In American commercial discourse we always give our designation: straight off, right at the top along with the handshake. A token of engagement. You know my name, so I can only want the best for you. There’s no way I’m going to rip you off – what, me, your friend?
At the heart of The Halls, Ms No-Name explained, was a desire to reproduce the traditional ideals of ‘community’ – only better. Staff were on hand at all times to assist in any matter, however arcane. The residents apparently thought of them as friends – presumably that special kind of friend who has to do whatever you tell them, no matter what time it is or how boring and arduous the task. The restaurant’s chef had previously worked at a glamour trough in Los Angeles even I had heard of, and residents could have meals delivered to their homes between the hours of 9.00 a.m. and midnight. Their wine cellars, she assured me, beggared belief. All houses were automated up to the hilt, with cable Internet access as standard. In addition to the much-vaunted golf club, there was a health club and a dining club and several others I didn’t bother to commit to memory. Membership of each of these was mandatory for residents and came in at around a half-million dollars. Per year. Each. Throughout all this I was aware of Chip nodding vigorously beside me, as if unable to believe what a good deal this all was. I sipped my hundredth cup of coffee of the day – at The Halls, at least it was good – and tried not to blanch.
She concluded by observing that there were only three homes still available within the community, priced at between eleven point five and fourteen million dollars – barkingly expensive even by luxury real-estate standards. She rounded off with a heartwarming paean to the joys of residence that I could see Chip mentally taking notes from.
‘Cool,’ I said, when this eventually drew to a measured close. I put my cup down. ‘So let’s go have a look.’
The woman stared politely at me. ‘Of course that’s not possible.’
‘I’ve been wet before,’ I reassured her. ‘Many times. I even went swimming once.’
‘The weather is immaterial. We don’t allow viewing of The Halls until a demonstration of appropriateness has taken place.’ She glanced at Chip, who was looking carefully blank.
‘Appropriateness,’ I said.
‘Financial and otherwise.’
I raised my eyebrows, smiled pleasantly. ‘What?’
‘What’s being said, if I might intrude,’ Chip said, ‘is that, as we discussed on the way here, The Halls maintains a very …’
‘I heard,’ I said. ‘So I’m to understand, Ms …?’