The Idea Man: The Idea Man Trilogy, #1

By Kristin Helling

Words are power, and ideas are dangerous.

 

Quirky hipster Parker Rebec moves to Paris, in order to finish writing his novel. When a mysterious stalker leaves him a trail of notes, Parker is caught up in a story he can't resist.

A decade earlier, on the other side of the world, Greysen Price must somehow leave his job as an inventor, completely erase his identity, and escape the country.

When the two lives intertwine, chaos ensues.

The Idea Man is a comedic thriller, the first book in a trilogy. This plot-twisting thriller is a must for lovers of action-packed stories with a touch of awkward hilarity. Get your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordwraith Books LLC
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781946921123

Book preview

Part I

ONE

Paris, 2020

The taste of the espresso played sweet and tangy notes on his tongue, and his eyes shifted around to the other tables in the Paris cafe in hopes of remaining unnoticed. He looked down at the handled shot glass sitting on its ceramic saucer. Parker lifted the miniature coffee cup to his lips and watched the hanging sign across the way as it flipped train times.

The caramel colored crema layer of the espresso began to recede as he took another sip and puckered his cheeks. No matter what I order...it's always straight espresso shots!

Parker inhaled the faint scent of exhaust as he watched a monstrous locomotive ease its way into its destination on the track, delivering a new set of travelers to the bustling Gare du Nord station. He gazed a moment longer at a woman in heels as she wheeled a black suitcase behind her.

Where is she going, I wonder? His mind raced as he reached into his pocket for coins. More importantly, where am I going? With glazed eyes, he stared regretfully at the euros in his palm, then looked up at the waiter standing at the podium to the small bistro. He was a tall, lean man with nearly perfect sideburns, and wore a black tuxedo.

Parker sighed, touching his own head. I'll never have sideburns that cool.

He turned his palm upside down and left his handful of coins on the table, knowing full well he’d overpaid in a city of overpriced things to begin with.

Without constructing the French he wanted to say first, he walked up to the waiter and said, Uh... Est-ce que utilisez-vous les toilettes?

The man curled his eyebrow in amusement. Pardon? he slurred back with perfect inflection.

Shit, I think I just asked him if he uses the toilet. Toilettes? Ou est les toilettes, I mean.

Ah. Zey are right down ze stairs to ze left.

Parker nodded quickly. Merci, Monsieur. He stifled a nervous laugh, then headed for the stairs. Wow, what a nice guy! He either thinks I'm a dumb American, or he genuinely helped me because I suck at French. I guess I'll find out if the bathroom is down in the underground or not. He pedaled down the ceramic tile steps.

The stiff chill in the air made his lungs ache. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth as he exited the heavy, double doors of the train station. His only bag hung over his shoulder. It held all the essentials: four days' worth of clothes and his sacred laptop containing his twenty-six-year-old-life’s work. He’d dropped everything to come here, for a change of scenery, hoping to finally finish his novel, and had now spent a good chunk of his savings on airfare and a vacation rental in Paris, France.

His mom had been a huge influence as to why he’d chosen Paris over any other city in the world. She’d said she’d studied the culture when she was younger and would be able to assist him if he got into a bind while he was away. In fact, she’d been so adamant he go to France if he had to go abroad that he’d felt he couldn’t refuse. Though he’d assured her that if he did get into some kind of trouble over here, he’d be able to get out of it without her help.

Parker grunted as he walked briskly down the street toward his rented car. He was an adult, for Pete’s sake. Four years out of college and his mom still treated him like a middle-schooler. She’d even given his younger brother Stephen more leeway. She’d learn to let him go do his own thing too without fretting about it eventually, right? Besides, how much trouble could a writer get into?

A writer... in Paris. How cliché, he muffled under his scarf, then spat out a piece of a fuzzy that stuck to his bottom lip. It beats delivering Ink Magazine to local businesses across the Kansas City metro.

He wrapped his arms around himself in the cold. The scent of fresh cinnamon bread wafted across his nose, penetrating through the scarf as he passed by a Boulangerie, a bread shop.

As a writer back in Kansas City, he'd tried to push his way into the literary community by landing a job at a local publication called Ink Magazine.  

As a delivery boy.

His logic had been that it got him one step closer to having an in in the industry. He'd lasted seven months delivering magazines.

Seven months.

He hadn’t even waited for his two weeks' notice to expire before getting on the nine-hour flight to escape that part of his life.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes at himself as he finally reached his rental car and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Who rents a car when they go to Paris? What was I thinking?

He'd planned to stay in France until he either finished his novel or his travel visa ran out and they kicked him out of the country. The visa gave him a max of sixty days. Surely he could finish the novel in sixty days!

He opened the car door and slipped down into the seat. His knees pressed up against the dashboard on the sides of the wheel. When he looked up, his eyes fell upon a brown piece of paper tucked inside the windshield wiper.

Hmph. He maneuvered himself back out of the seat and leaned around the front window to snatch it up, then sat back again and unfolded the paper. The note was in small chicken scratch.

In English.

He squinted and read:

Le Centre Pompidou is a great place to write a novel.

A chill sleeked up Parker's spine. What the...? He set the note aside on the passenger's seat and looked back and forth down the street outside his car. Is somebody watching me?! How would they know I'm an English-speaking writer?!

The note itself did not appear to be creepy. It was actually quite nice. A great sentence of advice to a new tourist. He’d certainly never heard of Le Centre Pompidou.

But nothing about that note made him feel warm and fuzzy.

It wasn’t the message inside the note that sent red flags in the form of sweaty palms and tense shoulders. It was the message he’d received in the way it was delivered. Someone had been watching him.

And then the reality of the situation hit him like a sack of bricks to the chest. The ice-cold feeling of isolation worked its way uncontrollably through his limbs. He was alone, and in a foreign country he had just begun to learn.

Was he being targeted? Why? What could anyone possibly want with a twenty-six-year-old American aspiring novelist?

His eyes traced over the black ink again. What should I do, then? Run? Continue the introverted, passive-aggressive trend of avoidance that he had so expertly pursued for most of his life? But run where? From who?

That did seem appealing… but he wasn’t sure just running away would fix things this time. This note writer knew stuff about him. Somehow, they’d known he was here to write his novel, they’d known he was an English-speaker, and they’d known this was his car, despite the fact he’d parked blocks away from the bistro.

Is someone following me?

He gulped, staring out the windshield, now suspicious of every person who passed by. But everyone went about his or her business as if he hadn't just been jarred by a tiny piece of paper that lay heavy on the seat next to him. Everybody had a purpose, a destination. It took a moment before he realized his hands shook in his lap.

We all know how this story ends. He spoke aloud in the car, to all the unaware people walking by.

A woman on a bicycle peddled past with a baguette held under her arm.

I saw that Liam Neeson movie where his daughter is sold to sex traffickers in Paris. Parker’s eyes widened at the memory. The possibilities of why somebody would seek him out, of all people, spun around in his brain. "Maybe I don’t know how this story ends."

Perhaps his Mom had something to do with this. She knew he’d gone there for an adventure. It’s possible she wanted to encourage that and had someone follow him.

Or not.

He looked down at the floor of the passenger seat, where he’d tossed his bag. The corner of his laptop stuck out the top like the chunk of an iceberg. I came here to write a book. I cannot fail. All great writers say their best work comes from experience.

Perhaps the little note on his windshield would be the ticket to his story.

He realized exactly what he needed to do: he wasn’t going to run away this time. He would pursue this, and follow the stalker’s instructions. He would go to the museum of modern art: Le Centre Pompidou.

TWO

Chicago, 2001

Greysen stretched his neck from side to side to relieve the tension that unexpectedly crept across his shoulders. With his eyes glued to the glowing screen of his phone, he walked down the sterile hallway. He moved through the building as if it were as familiar as the back of his hand. Like clockwork, he stopped at a door and flipped out his identification badge. After two mechanical beeps, the latch clicked. The nameplate on the outside of the sturdy office door read, Greysen Price.

Today was a big day.

On the top of his desk, he gathered his manila folder stuffed full of the diagrams and information he was going to pitch to the board. Then, he tugged at a drawer below. Locked.

I knew that... just flustered. He fished around inside his pocket. With the key clutched in his grasp, he failed to match it into the slot. It knocked against the metal drawer a few times before it fit in place.

Calm. Down. If you’re nervous, you’ll make mistakes.

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d pitched ideas to important people. He’d done this so many times over the course of his career working for Humavision Inc. But then, this particular pitch was especially crucial. Not just because it was a product he’d been working on for years, but because it was something which could revolutionize the future of the medical field. He’d failed to express the full functionality of an invention in the past. But this time it’d be different. He needed to get everybody on board.

He took an extra moment to breathe before he slid the drawer open and retrieved the only thing that sat inside: a box. The lid was slightly askew, and he saw the prototype nestled safely inside. He swelled with pride as he fixed the lid over his invention, hoping the others would see the value in his motivation for bettering people’s lives.

Greysen had been hired on as an inventor for the company’s Research and Development department with a fairly unique contract. Through Humavision, he was able to pitch ideas to different members of the board. If the board didn’t like it, he’d have to go back to the beginning. He didn’t get paid. Years would be wasted. If they liked his idea, it would be pushed on to scientists and engineers, and the payout for him could be huge. Suddenly the box felt heavier in his grasp.

He packed the folder and box into his briefcase, and then started a pot of coffee. The machine sat on a low standing filing cabinet adjacent to his desk.

Just as he was clicking the clasps closed on his briefcase, a knock sounded on the door. The nerves in his stomach jolted and he spun around. He relaxed again as he saw his coworker standing in the doorframe. Hello, Molly. What brings you down here? We have a meeting in— he looked down at his wrist, —20 minutes.

I wanted to see if you were ready. Or needed help hauling anything up to Four-Six-Two. She came into his office and closed the door.

Sleek, tight, black ringlets bounced at her jaw line as she headed for the coffee pot. She wore black slacks with a white button up shirt tucked in. The white contrasted against her flawless, umber skin.

She grabbed up his mug when she reached the pot and poured him a full cup.

What are you—here, I got that. He rushed to her side and lifted his mug from her hand. "I feel like I should be getting you coffee. Not the other way around. He thought he heard a small hint of a laugh from her. Thanks, though. I'm pretty much ready to head up there."

Are you nervous? Her pearly white teeth shone as she smiled at him.

He smirked. "I feed off this feeling." He leaned back and placed his steaming mug on the desk, then held out his hand. When she clasped her hand over his, he guided her around the desk to join him.

She exhaled sharply as he yanked her hips close, her mouth open.

His eyes shot over to the door that remained closed, then he leaned in to complete the kiss. He tightened his grip on her lower back as her tongue grazed his teeth.

Her presence was mesmerizing, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to the familiarity and calming energy she carried. Every kiss made him want her more. He fought to keep his concentration on the task before him. C'mon... Molly... let’s… He spoke between kisses.

But she pulled away then; brushed her thumb over his lips to wipe her kiss from his mouth. You'll do great today. She headed for the door. Oh, and I heard a rumor that two representatives from John Hopkins University will be there for the pitch. Flew all the way here from Baltimore, so be prepared for that. Molly peeked her head out the door and looked down both ends of the hall.

"Baltimore isn’t that far from Chicago. He watched her conscious attentiveness and appreciated her for it. So what will you say when somebody sees the Quality Control Manager leaving my office?" He lifted his briefcase gingerly with one hand.

Do you need me to carry anything, Mr. Price? Molly asked. Her voice was stiff and professional as a man in a black suit walked down the hallway.

Greysen smirked. No. I don't have boards today. I'm just bringing a CD with files for a slideshow.

Ah, okay. Yeah, that will work better anyway, she responded as her eyes followed the man down the hall. After a quick glance back at Greysen, she left the office.

He followed behind her to the elevator.

The sliver doors dinged. A balding man in a standard black suit stood in the corner with his arms crossed, and another man, captivated by his Blackberry cellular phone, stood next to him.

Greysen turned his back to them, his right arm bobbing up against Molly's. Just as the doors slid closed, it hit him. He heaved an exasperated sigh and looked down at his wristwatch.

What? Molly whispered sternly.

I forgot my coffee.

That's unfortunate, mate, the man next to him offered up in response, and his Australian accent echoed into the small space.

You'll be fine. Molly smirked.

He reached up and smoothed over his cleanly trimmed beard. As he watched the numbers climb floors, his nerves rose in the pit of his stomach.

Yep. Today was a big day.

THREE

Paris, 2020

Parker walked towards the Le Centre Pompidou, the Museum of Modern Art. It was the only building he'd ever seen that looked as though it was turned inside out. The museum’s entire interior infrastructure was on the outside: all its piping, plumbing, electrical, and air circulation wires. Each tract was marked with a different color. Red, blue, and green. The architect had even put the escalators on the outside of the building.

Until he received that note, he hadn’t known the museum existed. It wasn't in any of the tour guide pamphlets or tourist books he'd checked out from the library. His mom hadn’t told him about it, either, when she’d gone over places he must see while here. He lifted the collar of his black jacket up against his neck and looked both ways, approaching the large courtyard outside the entrance. This could be a trap...

Though he still wasn’t entirely clear as to why someone would try to lure him, specifically. Had it been a trap, it wasn’t a good one, because the note-writer had told him to come here. Or maybe he was playing right into their hands, since he’d come straight to the place they’d suggested. Who would do that? A very gullible person. Or a person who’s looking for a good story.

He passed a man painting the buildings across the street. The painter was particularly good at capturing the reflection of the sun as the light danced off the windows opposite them.

Large white vents curved up and out of the ground, another intensely gratifying architectural decision on the designer of the museum’s part. Parker wondered if they were actually functional to the airflow of the building, or if they were just there for looks. He traced his eyes from the modern, colorful museum to the buildings surrounding it.

As he absorbed the old world, gothic designs etched into the gray-stoned, Twentieth Century architecture, he couldn’t help but think of the controversy that must have arisen from the construction of a building like this.

He smiled at the thought. The museum stuck out like a sore thumb. But in a good way.

He entered the building, realizing the inside had just as much to look at as the outside. Just at first glance, he saw a food court, shops, a library that he noted for coming back to later, and even a movie theatre. An information kiosk floated in the middle of the lobby. He walked up to it to see if he could purchase tickets for the actual museum, which must have been around here somewhere.

The woman at the desk spoke to him in what sounded like beautifully tangled words. He reached up and ran his hands through his hair, long on top that blended into a buzz at the back of his neck, and laughed nervously.

When he didn’t respond immediately, she asked him again, Tickets for the museum, sir? Her English was excellent.

He’d come to the conclusion that he fit in quite well with French men; in the way he dressed in vintage fitting shirts and how he carried himself, given the locals seemed to often assume he was French. But the moment he opened—or didn’t open—his mouth, the illusion was over. Even then, he had always been greeted with kindness.

As he collected his ticket and made his way up the stairs to the glowing entrance of the museum exhibits, he tried to recall everyone he’d talked to since he’d flown in the week before.

Maybe it was somebody I talked to when I was still suffering from jetlag. He remembered vaguely speaking to a