Michael Ridding Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  M.P. Quote 1

  1

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  63

  Epilogue

  Coda: The Valley Burns

  MP Quote 2

  We

  Also From Project 89

  For Dad

  “Humanity has risen beyond the confines of perceptible reality through the art of conspiracy and mystery. Properly executed, the search for something greater has always led to advancement, be the initial hypothesis proven true or false. If the urge to know more, to find something greater than ourselves, was not present, mankind would still be swimming around the ocean, accepting of the deep, endless blue as the only reality.

  “But we didn't. We went to the surface and found a new level of existence, as humanity always tries to do. It is a trait that has led to what should have been a simple, ignorant species, unaware of its own creation and creator, gaining collective will beyond basic instinct.

  “If the search for more were to end, humanity would be stunted in its continuing growth, left to only ponder the greater meaning, to grow cold inside as belief in something greater than itself fades away, taking free will and consciousness with it.

  “This, my friend, would mark the end of the world.”

  -M.P.

  Just Beyond the Surface, Waiting on the Beach.

  1

  Tuesday, July 23rd

  Irvine Spectrum Shopping Mall

  Irvine, California

  3:47 PM

  He sat alone in the waiting area of the open-air mall in one of the many wooden chairs. The blue fabric awning of Dave and Buster's made the bright midday sun and hundred-degree temperatures tolerable.

  In front of him was a small, simple black table. His untouched lemonade sat in the center, a growing pool of condensation ringed around the bottom. He held a large smartphone in a leather flip case, responding to messages from his store manager.

  He was wearing a pair of Robert Wayne loafers, an older pair from a long dead line that he prided himself in having acquired. They were adorned with an abstract seal, the design reminiscent of an ancient islander's artistic take on a crocodile. His button-up dress shirt slowly faded from red to black, finally matching his black dress pants.

  Michael Ridding, named after his grandfather, didn’t look like he wanted to be bothered.

  At thirty-six, he stood six-foot-three with an intimidating face to most. However, those who knew him well only saw it as inviting. His thick brown hair was combed and slicked to his right side, several bleached patches barely visible as his natural color consumed them.

  A ringing suddenly filled his left ear, and he reached up to correct the issue. He’d worn a hearing aid the majority of his life and always hated the things. In his youth, they were large, indiscreet units plagued by constant malfunctions. Nowadays, they were barely visible and only squealed on occasion, so he tolerated the minor annoyances.

  Michael looked down at the clock on his phone. He’d been sitting for just over fifteen minutes, much longer than he had planned. Usually, he would have gone off shopping to his heart's content, but it would have been rude to leave his friend and roommate at the restaurant without letting him know.

  Aron Sanderson, who was still enjoying his time in the game room, was Michael's lifelong friend and now roommate. They had been inseparable since they met in elementary school, back when their families lived in Sacramento. They had gone through school together, drudged their way through college in Ohio, then found themselves living not far apart when Michael moved to Palm Springs after managing an aquarium import facility in Dallas.

  After Aron lost his home to a wildfire back in May, Michael had let him move in. How long their arrangement would last, Michael didn't know, but they were content for the short term. Having someone to talk over the work day with was something neither of them knew they missed. In truth, Michael hoped Aron would live with him for as long as possible. Otherwise, it would just be him and the cat again, and however much comfort Granger was, she wasn't exactly the best listener.

  He set the phone down. Sipping his lemonade, he watched the shoppers come and go, most of them groups of young people migrating from one fashion store to another like schools of fish on a reef.

  The minutes continued to tick by with no sign of Aron. Michael didn’t worry; odds were, Aron had gotten carried away.

  Again.

  Normally reserved, when given the chance he would branch out and have some fun. Michael had left him at the skee ball lanes, where he was challenging some kid to see who could get the highest score. It was good-natured fun, but Michael was looking forward to the day when Aron realized how immature he looked. Compared to his best friend, Aron had always been a little less uptight, but the last few years had seen Aron break out of his shell more often. Michael supposed it had something to do with the job.

  Michael couldn’t help but reflect on his work. The excursion to the Spectrum was meant to be a cool-down after a long, tedious meeting with their boss while he had been in town. Instead, Michael could feel the sun creeping over the protection of the awning as it lowered, threatening to take his remaining patience with it across the hazy blue sky.

  He drew his thoughts inward, letting go of his concerns about Aron. He found himself looking back to the time when his life had taken a dramatic turn. A turn that led him to this moment.

  He let the memory consume him, oblivious to the three men getting ready to kill him just out of sight.

  2

  Wednesday, June 17th

  Seven Years Ago

  Modern Aquaria

  Palm Springs, California

  12:16 PM

  Life after college had been difficult for Michael.

  Shortly after graduation, he moved to Dallas and worked for a tropical fish distribution center. After spending two years making a good living off of something he loved, things took a turn. He suffered something his parents had feared and predicted: A quarter-life crisis.

  Desperate to make something more of his life, he saved enough to lease a condo in Palm Springs and started his own aquarium shop, Modern Aquaria. Initially, the shop did well, winning over most of the local aquarium enthusiasts and drawing new people into the hobby. Years later, though, hard times hit nationwide, and aquariums became a luxury few could afford. The shop did worse and worse over time, much to his disappointment. After months of struggling to keep the shop going, Michael was forced to announce that the store was closing.

  That was when Benedict found him.

  If Michael had
a list of the oddest people he had ever met in his life, Benedict would have soared to the top on psychotic wings.

  It was the final week of business and Michael was working alone, catering to no one when an unfamiliar face walked into the shop. He was a younger, slightly heavy man who was just shorter than Michael. He wore a long, black wool coat in the hundred-and-six-degree heat. Black denim pants and black dress shoes peeked out from underneath the coat, and Michael could make out a white T-shirt and a black, rectangular pendant around the man's neck.

  “Hey there,” Michael said, welcoming the man as he did all customers.

  But the smaller man appeared intimidated, initially drawing back before returning the welcome with a nod and forced smile. He started browsing and was soon lost among the rows of aquariums and supplies.

  Looking back, Michael could never place why, but he had felt that now more than ever would be a good time to check the security cameras. Using a system of his own design, he turned on the monitors, knowing that any obvious robbery would be caught on the DVR back in his office. The monitor, hidden under the cashier's desk, took a moment to warm up before the multi-image screen displayed the four security camera feeds.

  He saw the man in aisle four among the tanks of saltwater livestock, hunched over and...

  Is he crying?

  Michael saw the slow heaving of the man’s chest and the constant wiping of his eyes. He was obviously upset, and he was trying to hide it.

  In the otherwise empty store, Michael could hear the man talking to himself, his voice barely audible over the buzzing and bubbling aquarium filters.

  “You have to. You need to,” he was saying. “You came all this way, came this far. You can't throw it away now that you know what he means.”

  The man’s head shot up, searching to see if he had been heard, oblivious to the hidden security camera among the décor across from him.

  Now, Michael could clearly make out the man's face. His eyes were red and his cheeks were pink from wiping away tears. He looked down, making more of an effort to compose himself.

  Michael tensed. The man could be some kind of nut-bag or drug addict—or worse. He had come across some before; Palm Springs was known for its diversity and acceptance of alternative lifestyles—most of which were accepted and even encouraged—but it was no longer the most “family-friendly” place, once one searched behind the blacked-out windows of supposedly abandoned buildings. Every once in a while, some “undesirables” would creep out from those dark buildings and into the light when least expected. They were far from welcome, even in the famously tolerant city.

  Was this man one of them?

  3

  Michael gazed down at his screen. The smaller man steadied himself on the aquarium shelves with his right hand. As he watched, the man’s face slowly returned to its normal color. It had been five minutes since the man had spoken out loud, and Michael was certain he was about to make his move. Whatever that was.

  Michael had no weapon. Not because he had anything against them, but because he simply didn't think he needed one. However, he suddenly wished he had a gun within reach as he saw the man approach the counter.

  As he rounded the corner, Michael saw that he wore that same forced smile.

  “Mr. Ridding,” the man began as he came up to the desk and extended a hand. “My name is Benedict, and if you don't mind, I would like to take a moment of your time to talk about a business proposal.”

  How did this strange man know his name? Was he some old contact, maybe a sales representative from one of the various companies he stocked? Maybe they had met at a trade show? It was possible, but then again, this was someone Michael knew he would have remembered.

  Even so, he sounded as awkward as a young kid reading in front of a class. The presentation was obviously rehearsed, but there was genuine passion in the forced words. Whatever this guy wanted to talk over, he was serious, but also unsure of how to handle the situation. Michael considered the request. If it was a legitimate proposal, he was willing to hear it, but why present him with this now when the store was about to close?

  Finally given a better chance to look the man over, Michael reconsidered his earlier assessment. It was obvious that Benedict wasn't a drug addict or some other undesirable.

  To start with, he smelled good. He wore a copious amount of Oxford Bleu cologne, the distinct scent crossing the distance between them with ease. His well-tailored coat was nicely set and freshly cleaned—not a hair clung to it.

  It was like Michael was talking to a completely different man than the one who had walked in.

  Michael grasped the outstretched hand while glancing at his wristwatch. It was just after twelve-thirty. “Well, I was about to close for lunch, so I guess we can talk in the break room, if you like.”

  Benedict made little attempt to contain his joy.

  Michael flipped the “Closed” sign, not bothering to lock the door, and showed Benedict to the small employee lunch area. The room consisted of a microwave atop a mini-fridge and a round folding table with two matching chairs. Michael let Benedict have a seat first, then walked to the refrigerator.

  “You want anything? We have burritos, soup?”

  “No thanks, I ate on the plane,” Benedict said, then quickly grew quiet, as if he’d been silently reprimanded.

  “Well, I hope you don't mind if I have something. It'll be my first meal all day.” Or perhaps his only meal, but he didn't tell Benedict that. If this man was here to discuss business, it wasn’t in his best interest to imply that he barely had enough money for one microwaved meal a day. “So, you just flew in?”

  “Yeah, my plane came in just a couple hours ago. I had a layover and thought I would stop in town,” Benedict said as Michael put his food in the microwave.

  “Well, feel free to let me know if I’m keeping you,” Michael said.

  “Oh, they won't leave without me,” Benedict said uncomfortably, as if he wasn't sure if he should be saying anything at all.

  “Wish airlines would do that for me,” Michael remarked. He hadn’t flown in a long time. Even then, it had been for business, and he found none of the sparse trips to trade shows enjoyable.

  “Well, they have to, since it's my plane,” Benedict said with a hint of resistance.

  Michael looked back, his eyes bulging. “You have your own plane?”

  “Well, I wouldn't call it mine. It's the company's private jet, but I have priority,” Benedict replied.

  Michael fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Benedict’s claim of having a private jet left him surprised, yet troubled. It seemed impossible that any company with the resources to maintain such an asset would be interested in his small shop.

  The microwave went off and Michael retrieved his meal.

  “All right,” he said, cautiously walking to the table and sitting across from Benedict. “You have my attention.”

  4

  “What I’m about to say is ludicrously stupid,” Benedict began, “but I ask that you keep an open mind. If you have any questions, I can answer them after.”

  Michael nodded for Benedict to continue.

  The flood of information the man let loose was overwhelming, but Michael kept quiet until the end.

  “About a year ago, I came into possession of an extensive communications and networking corporation. Known as DenCom to most of the public, its advanced technologies division currently supplies the United States with the majority of its newest tech. Flight systems, satellites, even a few aircraft are in the works.

  “I got to know the old CEO about a year before taking over the company. He’d heard about me through... okay, I know how stupid this is gonna sound, but he heard about me through my… ‘exploits’ in cryptozoology. I was job-hunting in Florida when he asked me to visit Denver, my old hometown. I accepted his offer, and he paid for a first-class ticket.

  “I was taken straight from the airport to a house close by the Rockies. There, I was led to the bed of an old man wh
o told me his name was Herbert Morecraft. He’d heard about the hobbies I had in my youth—ghost-hunting, UFOs, all that kind of stuff. Nothing ever came of it, though, until I was out of high school and I camped out in the Sierra Nevadas to look for Sasquatch. As I’m sure you’ve already assumed, I was young and stupid, so I got lost pretty quickly.

  “As far as I was concerned, the trip was a complete failure. I was lost out there for three months with nothing but my coat and survival guide. I panicked, went feral, turned into a mountain man eating berries and catching trout out of streams to survive. Eventually, some hikers found me and took me back to town.

  “After I got out of the hospital, I decided I’d had enough excitement for one lifetime. I spent four years in Seattle getting a useless degree in business management, then spent another year looking for work, living out of my car and cheap hotels so I could stay mobile. Near the end of that year was when Morecraft interviewed me.

  “He told me two things. One, his doctors told him he was dying and he had less than a year to live, and two, that he’d researched me and was hoping I could take over as the new CEO once he passed away. I was floored. He laughed, then offered me a deal.

  “He offered to fund a full expedition for the Sasquatch with me as the team leader. We could spend the next six months going wherever we wanted and doing whatever we wanted, but if we could prove the creature's existence, then I would have fulfilled my end of the bargain, and he would sign over DenCom to me. He also said that if I did become CEO, he wanted me to pick up where he left off on his own investigations after he was gone. What could I say to that? He was offering me a chance to pursue my—albeit strange—passion. Plus, he offered me a hefty paycheck whether I came back with proof or not, just for my time. So, I accepted his offer, and here I am.”

  Michael took the story in. It was obviously rehearsed, but much of it sounded sincere. But what was the point?

  He’d never been a believer in the paranormal, apart from the existence of ghosts. In his youth he saw things, most of them probably figments of his imagination. Nonetheless, the experiences had opened the door to research in the phenomena, and he came out a believer. But everything else that fell under the catch-all term of “paranormal” didn’t particularly interest him. Still, his curiosity was piqued.