The Pleasure Dome

By Craig Enger

All he needed was a vacation…

After witnessing a terrible accident, after long hours working as a successful young professional, Chris Thorne needed a break. When he meets his two best friends for an evening on the Georgetown waterfront in D.C., the unexpected happens. He encounters Chloe Fleming. There are rumors…of a secret getaway…to the most luxurious resort in the world. An Island Paradise.

But you can't book a trip. No one can. In this city of the young, rich and powerful, only the select few ever go there. You must be Invited…

Welcome to…THE PLEASURE DOME…A place of mystery, romance, and suspense…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667854762

Book preview

PREFACE

After the classic adventure novels of authors like Robert Louis Stevenson and John Buchan, came the Noir novels of the 1940s, notably those by Hammett and Chandler.

Subsequent decades took inspiration, like any art form, leading to new variations in mystery–adventure fiction. By the late 1960s and 1970s, a time of great breakthroughs in the Computer Age, there came a blending of mystery with modern science, medicine, technology, and pop culture.

On a quest through dusty aisles of used bookstores, I found the bestsellers from that era, along with a few lesser-known pulp titles, yet also highly entertaining. So, I grew inspired.

This book is en homage to the style of those quick thrillers from those eras. In short, this book is intended to be the swift and spirited novel that it is.

Enjoy.

C.E.

PART I

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree…"

—Samuel Coleridge

1.

TRAUMA

Before Chris Thorne saw anything, he heard that terrible sound, the loud revving of an engine, the pitch ascending, a machine screaming at high speed. He was about to cross the intersection when he turned sharply to look, just in time to see a black Mercedes S500 sedan appear, cresting the hill, speeding so fast, it caught air—the entire body of the luxury car, all four wheels off the ground—jumping fifteen feet ahead, hitting the street with a sharp scrape and sparks flaring, tires shrieking and hurtling on.

Chris hurled himself back out of the way, an inch from being hit by the Mercedes as it shot past. Simultaneously in his peripheral vision, he could see a second vehicle come speeding in from the perpendicular street. A white ambulance racing fast, its red lights flashing, sirens blaring, a signal that someone—a patient or a victim—was inside.

Next came the punch, an explosive shock of metal hitting metal at a hundred miles per hour. The Mercedes rammed into the ambulance at full force. The two vehicles were thrown violently, locked together, skidding sideways and careening across the intersection. Shards of glass went flying outwards in all directions, glinting and catching the daylight, arcing through the air, sprinkling across the pavement.

Chris’s eyes went wide and his nerves winced as he witnessed the crash.

The hood of the Mercedes was crushed inward, like a sharp V, its engine revving loudly with a sickening crunch as if it were alive in mechanical pain. It kept pushing the ambulance toward the street-corner. The ambulance’s tires were spinning smoke, burning rubber, spitting up hot black clouds.

Through the wrenching sounds, Chris heard a human scream, the terrified cry of the ambulance driver as the vehicle smashed into a lamppost. A tremendous crash and the man’s scream were cut short. The sides of the ambulance caved in, compressed between the Mercedes and the post.

Everything fell dead silent.

Chris was stunned, gazing at the wreckage. He’d never seen a crash up close, except in movies, but this was terribly different. This was real. He’d seen a few accidents on the side of the road, but only after the fact. Never had he been a witness.

He was shaken but his mind clicked into action. He reached for his cell and dialed 911, reporting the crash.

Then he went forward to check for survivors. Crossing the street, he stepped cautiously among the debris. The scene was of twisted metal, shards of broken glass. As he drew near, he was afraid of what he might find.

Reaching the smashed Mercedes, all the windows were shattered into spiderwebs. Chris peered in through the broken passenger window into what used to be a luxury car. The driver’s body was thrown forward against the steering column, the face turned away from him; the right side of his head was crushed in, hair matted with dark red blood.

Chris stepped around to the driver’s side and recoiled at the sight of the dead man’s horribly transfigured face. There was a jagged gap in driver’s window, large enough for him to slip his right arm through. Chris reached inside, his stomach turning with a slight revulsion as his fingers inched closer to the bloody, motionless body. He touched his middle and index fingers at the man’s throat to feel for a pulse. There was none.

Two new experiences in one morning: a high-speed collision and a dead body. What would he find next? Except he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. Quickly, he turned from the Mercedes and went around to the ambulance.

How could there be any survivors? The ambulance was devastated, the sides crushed inward, the Mercedes pinning it to the lamppost, blocking entry from either side. Chris saw the cracked windshield and two paramedics—driver and passenger—both lifeless. No way to get inside to check the victims, but from the sight, neither had made it.

Finally, Chris went round to the back of the ambulance. Both rear doors were crooked and bent from the crash. He gripped firmly and pulled hard on one of the door handles, but it didn’t budge. He tried the other door. Three hard pulls with all his strength and he was able to pry it open, enough to peer within. The interior damage was severe; everything was thrown at odd angles.

Chris pried the door open a few inches more, stepped up on the rear bumper and squeezed through, climbing inside. Maneuvering through jagged metal, he made his way inside and came up alongside the hospital stretcher, tilted sharply by the crash.

And there, laid out upon it, was a body.

She lay perfectly still. An attractive girl, in her mid-twenties, her forehead badly bruised. Her upper torso was thrown at an awkward angle, only held fast by the belts strapped across her chest and thighs, reducing any sudden motion. Lessening the impact? Chris had to find out and moved a step closer.

The girl lay deathly still. The white hospital sheets covered most of her, but the top of the sheet had been ripped away, exposing her left side. Chris glimpsed a discolored patch on the girl’s left shoulder. A deep laceration, dripping red blood. Then, he noticed something else, slightly blurred by the injury, yet visible. There, in her skin was painted: a strange tattoo. The image of the ink—blue and silver—was a semicircular design. Some type of symbol. The symbol must have some meaning, but what was it?

The girl’s position was awkward, the bed was tilted, and movement inside the wreckage was limited. Chris steadied himself and leaned in, reaching toward her, stretching until his fingers touched her throat, to feel for a pulse.

Nothing. But then…what was that? A faint heartbeat?

Could she possibly be…?

Suddenly, the girl’s eyes shot open. She jolted and reached her hand up and gripped his wrist, tight as a vice.

She was alive!

Help me! she gasped and fell back and whispered, Or…land…. Her eyes half closed again, pleading, very weak.

Chris was startled as he looked into her eyes. Hold on! he tried to assure her, wishing there was more he could do, The emergency team is on its way.

"I…kand…. He’s coming…after…"

Chris leaned in closer, Island? What? Who?

Her voice was faint, a trembling whisper, "Him…Sorcerer…Sa…ma…kand…"

But her voice was so weak, he could hardly hear. He tried to decipher, Someone’s coming? Is that what you said? He touched her hand and nodded, The medics are coming. They’ll be here soon. Hang on.

The girl’s eyes closed, her grip slackened, and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Chris eased back away, shaking a bit. Worried for the girl. But there was nothing more he could do.

Within minutes came the sirens.

The police and Emergency Medical Services (EMS) teams arrived on the scene, lights flashing, and went into action. Chris kept a safe distance, watching from afar. The EMS team wasted no time gaining access to the Mercedes. Chris saw the team talking and one of the EMTs shaking his head. So, the driver of the Mercedes, the man who’d caused the crash, was officially pronounced dead.

Swiftly, the team moved to the ambulance pinned against the lamppost by the car. Here they had more difficulty but worked fast and with skill. One of the EMTs squeezed into the front of the ambulance and came out again a minute later shaking his head in dismay, confirming Chris’s initial guess, both paramedics were gone.

A second team of EMTs went straight to the back of the ambulance, prying the rear doors open with crowbars and a hydraulic rescue tool—the jaws of life—with wrenching and screeching sounds at the back of the wreckage. Finally, the doors tore open. The team jumped inside and reached the girl, assessing her injuries and condition. Soon after, they reappeared, climbing out and down, carrying the girl on the broken stretcher.

The EMTs were quick and careful not to shift the body in any way that could cause more injury. All signs meant the girl was still barely alive.

As they carried her past, Chris caught a glimpse of the girl’s profile as she lay unconscious, fragile.

The EMTs transferred her to their ambulance nearby, sliding the stretcher into the back. Two EMTs climbed in after. The girl was in expert hands now. The driver got into the front, preparing to leave, as another EMT was shutting the rear doors.

Chris called out and asked, Will she pull through?

Too soon to tell. Her condition is serious. We’ve stabilized her enough for the ride to the E.R.

What are her chances?

I don’t even want to guess. We’ve to get her to the hospital, the EMT said. He then shut the rear doors with a soft thud, gave two quick taps at the rear window, and went to the passenger side to join the driver.

Sirens flashing, the ambulance pulled out, speeding off and rounding a corner, on its way to emergency at Georgetown Hospital.

Tow trucks arrived on the scene. Chris watched the smashed vehicles being separated and hauled up to be taken away.

One of the police officers on the scene came over to speak with him.

Thanks for sticking around, the officer said, "Terrible accident. You saw the whole thing. And you were the only witness?"

Chris nodded, still a bit shaken, Yes, as far as I know.

The officer spoke in a measured tone that would set anyone at ease, What were you doing here at this hour? It’s early. 6:30 AM.

I was walking to work. I parked in a garage nearby. My office is a couple of blocks from here.

The officer questioned Chris about what he’d seen. On several points, he asked Chris to repeat his story, to make sure he got the facts down accurately and to verify the witness’s statements.

And the Mercedes came from that direction? the officer asked, pointing up the hill to where the black sedan had appeared.

Yes. It came out of nowhere, Chris explained, Racing down to the intersection.

How fast would you say it was going?

Very fast. At least a hundred miles per hour. Even faster. It was before rush hour. The driver must’ve been in an awful hurry to get to work or wherever he was going, but…

But what?

Chris replied, It’s odd. He didn’t even try to stop. Even when the lights turned red. Even when he must’ve seen the ambulance ahead. But I saw no sign of him slowing down; he didn’t even hit the brakes.

He didn’t slow down at all? the officer asked, sounding a bit surprised.

"Not at all. Instead of slowing down, it’s almost like he kept speeding up."

And you’re certain the light was red? He just skipped it and drove through the intersection?

That’s right, Chris confirmed with a nod.

The officer finished with his questions. Chris had given an accurate description of the crash as best he could.

Anything else you can add?

Chris could still see the girl’s face, the strained look in her eyes, and he recalled her grip on his wrist, One more thing. Her voice was faint, but desperate, like she was reaching out for help. Like she might be in danger of some kind.

What kind of help?

I don’t know. She fell back unconscious.

The officer jotted down the statements in his notepad, and flipped it closed. Alright; that should do it. If we have any further questions, we’ve got your contact info. Thanks for your cooperation. How about you? You’re going to be okay?

Chris nodded, Still a bit shaken. I’ve never seen anything like it. Up close? It’s shocking.

Certainly is, quite a mess, the officer said a bit monotone, as if he’d seen this type of thing many times before.

Officer, I have a question.

Yes?

I was just wondering. Who is she?

The girl in the ambulance? We don’t know. Only her name: Sarah Orlando, the officer shrugged, Whoever she is, let’s hope that she pulls through. Thanks to your 911 call, she just might survive.

The officer waved his thanks and walked back across the scene of the accident, over to his police cruiser.

Chris turned to leave. He couldn’t help wondering about the injured girl. Now being rushed to E.R. Would she pull through? And what injury had she suffered? Why was she in the ambulance in the first place?

2.

THE DEAL

After the crash, Chris made his way to his job, still feeling stunned by what he’d seen; things seemed different, a bit surreal. The Mercedes had missed him by an inch or less. He felt lucky to be alive.

Going back into work on a big IT project, with long hours and high pressure, he felt the built-up stress and tried to recall the last time he’d lived a little. Part of him wished he could just get away from it all. When was the last time he’d taken a break? He couldn’t even remember; it had been so long. He needed a vacation.

This morning, he’d awakened early as usual, made a cup of French press coffee, and read the news, mostly opinions. The media knew how to stir things up in the U.S. and between countries, with politics, trade wars, and a few real wars. He scanned the markets—stocks down for the day but up overall, and few business articles about recent acquisitions of biotech, medical, and health companies.

One of Chris’s good friends was a lawyer involved in those areas, so it was natural after the crash to want to hear a familiar voice, a friend.

Chris reached for cell, tapped the digits, and heard the electronic ring, Come on, he whispered, pick up.

Hello? a voice answered.

Josh, hey! I’m glad you’re there.

Why? What’s up?

I’ve had one hell of a morning, Chris explained how he’d witnessed the terrible accident and the scene of the crash.

Wow, that is quite a morning. Not to sound insensitive, but way more exciting than mine, Josh remarked.

They talked. Josh was a close friend, less the sensitive type, nonetheless genuine. Chris was glad to hear his voice and asked, What about you? How goes the case?

Josh groaned, I’ve worked nineteen hours straight, every day, for the past three and half weeks.

That’s why they pay you $200 per hour, Chris said.

Yeah, it’s also why I could use a beer this evening after work. What are you up to tonight? Any plans?

Nothing yet.

Let’s do happy hour. I’ll give Collin a ring; see if he wants to get out. We’ll pick a place. Let’s touch base later.

I’ll see how I feel this evening.

Come on; it’s Thursday night. I’ll call you later.

And they signed off.

Joshua Kaufman hung up the phone, glanced at the clock on his desk. It was 10:26 a.m. No surprise he was still in the office, working round the clock for days in a row, and last night was no exception. By now, he was used to running on five hours of sleep, crashing on the office couch.

At twenty-eight, Josh was a young and bright attorney at the law firm of Cohen & Cohen. He was from the D.C. area, went to law school in New York City and worked there for a while, before coming back specifically to work for the firm, ranked one of the most prestigious in the nation’s capital. New clients and cases were coming in and the firm was expanding. No matter how hard he worked, there was always more work to do—filings, briefs, depositions—and now he was helping the firm handle a set of private biotech mergers and acquisitions.

Josh had recently calculated that over the past five years he’d worked five thousand hours, finally admitting to himself he must be a workaholic. Weekends were workdays. Coffee was his fuel. His routine went like this: up at 6 a.m., work until noon, grab a quick lunch, which he ate at his desk, and continue working through the afternoon into the evenings until midnight or 1 a.m. He owned an expensive apartment downtown but didn’t always make it home to enjoy it. He’d get in after midnight, crash for a few hours, only to be woken up early by the alarm and start the routine all over again.

The work was grueling, but the money was hard to refuse.

Washington D.C. was lawsuit central, with all the politicians, lobbyists, senators, and reps on the Hill, state and federal cases, corporate mergers, high-tech acquisitions, patent cases, wealthy estate planning, and innumerable rich divorces. There was never any lack of work, and the money kept rolling in.

Josh kept working, but he knew he could use a break. No question: Joshua Kaufman needed a vacation.

But not today.

Today was Thursday, and this evening he’d get a brief reprieve; out for a happy hour with his friends, have a couple of beers, enjoy a few laughs. Afterward, he’d grab a large cup of coffee and head back to the office by 10 p.m. to work a final hour or two.

Josh yawned, arose from his desk and went out for a stretch, heading to the nearby Starbucks for a double espresso.

Then back in his office, he burrowed through the stacks of papers and skimmed the notes he’d made about his latest case. One of dozens the firm was handling. It was a merger battle, a hostile takeover by NeuraSys, a private corporation aiming to acquire a small competitor, Advanced Bio Enterprises, owner of valuable patents in biotechnology. The target company was Josh’s client, and they didn’t want to be taken over. They were fighting back with a poison pill strategy.

Josh jotted down a few more notes and strategic ideas. He turned to his computer screen, collected his thoughts, and started his rapid-fire typing.

You’re still here? one of the other attorneys asked as they were passing by, leaning in the doorway.

Josh joked, I’ve got the best commute in town because I never leave the office.

The attorney laughed, You should set up a cot next to your desk.

Yeah, with a Coleman camping stove. And pitch a tent.

You might as well since you’re here all the time. Good luck on the case, the attorney smiled and disappeared down the hall.

Of course they were joking, but Josh knew something was off. He could feel it. The work and money were great but they left no balance for the rest of his life. The days passed quickly, but this time in his life was slipping by. He was still young enough to get out and socialize, hit the nightclubs, have fun with friends, meet a few girls. Enjoy life at his age—that’s what he should be doing! Instead of spending days, nights, and weekends in the office.

Yet, the whole D.C. region was high pressure. And in a big law firm, the long hours were expected. Six or seven days a week. But all work and no play make one dull indeed. No wonder more than a few senior attorneys, men and women both, were closet alcoholics. And the high-powered attorneys were often cheating on their partners behind their backs, but they never expected the reverse. Their husbands and wives, who’d married them for financial stability, felt neglected and often sought solace elsewhere.

Josh’d seen it happen time and again. He’d once told Chris how his fellow lawyers were very smart men and women, all driven, many with big egos, who didn’t want to go into engineering, high-tech or medicine, but who wanted to make money. The attitude was easy to see in the extroverted types wearing flashy ties