Committed Chapter 16

The man’s first thought on entering the entrance hall of the Menelaus Manor in New Carthage was a single word.  Excessive.

            Tired from a two hour flight on a private jet out of Toronto, the man ran his hand lightly over his forehead and glanced at the chauffeur who had driven him in from the New Carthage airport.  The man had the air of someone who had seen enough to know when to speak and when to keep quiet.  They had exchanged less than a dozen monosyllables in the course of the drive to the manor.

            The man adjusted his leather jacket and crossed his arms, feeling the gun in his shoulder holster press against his ribs.  It might seem uncomfortable, but he liked to encourage in himself to habit of not acting as though he were carrying a weapon.  One way to do that was to pretend like the discomfort it caused didn’t really exist.

            The chauffeur, who was also apparently the manor’s butler, had told him to wait in the entrance hall for his client.  The man let out a slow breath and examined the hall more closely.

            There were two deep brown wooden staircases curving up the slightly rounded walls to a mezzanine.  Beneath that mezzanine was a set of double doors that presumably led into the deeper regions of the house.  To the left and right were single doors also leading into other rooms.  All the doors were closed.  The walls were decorated with a sharp pattern of red with golden bands twisting and curving into various repetitive shapes.  There were several pieces of furniture situated about the room for aesthetic value.  These were of little interest to the man.

            There were also four mirrors, two on either side of the single doors to his left and right, each the length of the doors themselves.  The effect of looking into these mirrors was to create an endless replication of the viewer and the hall in which he or she stood.

            The man looked at his reflection and even with the physical proof caught in the image he saw he couldn’t really see himself ever living in a place like this.

            The man’s skin was almost charcoal black, something he had proudly received from his Nigerian mother.  In contrast against his skin was his muted gray hair, buzzed close to his scalp.  His eye brows and goatee were also gray and his eyes were a passionless pale blue.  He was short and stocky with broad shoulders and thick, meaty hands.  Some might find his appearance startling, but it was hard to still care after nearly forty-years of living with people’s reactions.  It had always been best to just try and ignore them.  Eventually, he had perfected the art so that he didn’t even realize he did it anymore.

            “Achilles.  That can’t possibly be your real name, now can it?”

            He turned towards the owner of the voice and barely registered surprise at his client’s age.  The owner of the voice couldn’t be younger than seventeen.  And yet, he spoke with a confidence and a suave that the man usually associated with clients who were far more advanced in years.  This puzzled the man, but only in a scholarly sense.  It did not colour his opinion of a paying client.

            “It is good to meet you, Mr. Menelaus,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand.

            Janus did not accept the hand.  He barely even seemed to notice it.  He was still shaking his head as he surveyed the man.

            “I must say this, if it is your real name than that is an impressive coincidence but if it is simply a title you have appointed itself it certainly promotes a certain kind of association that is no doubt beneficial for a man of your line of work.  Very well, I can accept calling you Achilles.  Frankly, if you produce results, I’d be more than happy to call you Zeus if that was the name I signed the cheque out to.”

            “I accept cash only,” the man who went by Achilles replied.  He let his rejected hand drop.

            “Of course, of course,” Janus said, waving his hand as if batting away a particularly irksome fly.  “All of that is really irrelevant.  All I care about is results.”

            “Whom do you wish me to find, sir?” Achilles asked, getting straight to the point, as he often did.

            “My girlfriend has been kidnapped,” Janus explained, cupping his hands behind his back and pacing in front of Achilles.  “A schoolmate of hers, Paris Montague, kidnapped her from our school yesterday and despite the police forces best efforts they’ve been unable to track him.  I had you flown in here from Toronto because I was told that you were one of the best in this business.  You hunt bounties, Mr. Achilles.  I’ve placed one on the heads of Paris Montague and Ariadne Helen.  Bring me either one and I will pay you $5000 dollars.  Bring me them both together and I will pay you $$15 000 dollars.  I will pay $2500 up front and the rest depending on the completion of the task.  Do you feel up for it?”

            “Where were they last seen?” Achilles asked.

            “Heading into the downtown area of New Carthage.  Ariadne’s father has a business down there.  It’s entirely possible that they might go to him.”

            “Why would they do that?” Achilles asked.

            “I beg your pardon?” Janus asked, halting mid-stride and giving Achilles a curious look.

            Achilles felt the same twitch of anger he’d felt when Janus refused his offered hand as he met that gaze.  There was something in that gaze.  Not outright disrespect, but certainly a lack of respect.  Achilles tried to repress his anger as he posed his question again.

“Why would they go to Mr. Helen’s place of business?”

“Are you familiar with Mr. Helen?”

            “I did my research on the plane,” Achilles offered by way of an answer.

            “Then you know that Ariadne Helen is the daughter of Arthur Helen, the CEO of Hellenistic Inc.  So I shouldn’t have to tell you that Paris will no doubt contact him in order to pose blackmail for his daughter’s safe return.  Does that satisfy your inquiring mind?”

            Achilles nodded.  He had a dozen more questions.  Why was Janus Menelaus contacting him to retrieve Ariadne and not Ariadne’s father?  Why was he bringing in outside help instead of allowing the police to handle this?  What details was Janus Menelaus intentionally withholding from him?

            Janus had made reference to Achilles’ success as a bounty hunter.  Part of that success came from Achilles’ understanding of what exactly he was being hired to do.  It was clear that Janus was feeding him a story to explain his presence there but it was not the truth.  There were details that were being left out.  Eventually, Achilles would uncover them.  But until the picture was perfectly clear to him he would accept the money, as was his lot in life, and do the assignment that he had been given.

            “I will head to Hellenistic Inc. HQ immediately,” Achilles assured his new client.

            “You will be taking these gentlemen with you.”

            Two police officers in uniform stepped down the stairs, eyeing Achilles with dislike.  One had veiny arms, sandy blonde hair, a fat nose, and a wiry frame.  The other was slightly taller with a crew-cut of black hair, a thick jaw, and wrinkly eyes.  Achilles instantly saw them for what they were, bought hands.  Janus Menelaus had apparently spared no expense in his attempt to retrieve Ariadne Helen.

            “Officers Seth and Antenor,” Janus explained, gesturing to the thick jawed one and then the veiny armed one.

            Achilles began to reassess the situation.  Something told him that he was now too far into the game to be pulled out.  The son of a multi-billion dollar business giant, even one under CRA investigation, didn’t fly you all the way from Toronto just to have you reject a job offering because of a couple of cops happened to also be on his payroll.

            One look at his young client told him everything.  Janus Menelaus had paid for Achilles services, had brought him here to New Carthage in order to perform a desired task.  This was a man who had never heard a ‘no’ he couldn’t make into a ‘yes’.  In Janus Menelaus’ world, by paying for Achilles’ services he owned Achilles.

            But nobody owned Achilles.

            “Here is your money.  The $2500 up front,” Janus said, producing the wad of one-hundred dollar bills, held together by a rubber band, from the inside of his sports jacket.  When he made the move, Achilles noticed the leather of a shoulder holster.  The sports jacket had been tailored specifically to accommodate the addition size presented by the presence of the holster.

            A new question popped into Achilles mind.  Why did his new client feel the need to carry a weapon around on his person even in his own home?  Is it Paris Montague who frightens this boy?  Or does Paris Montague represent someone else?

            Achilles took a closer look at Janus’ face.  He noticed the slight hint of bruising on his chin where someone had struck him recently.

            As always seemed to be the case, the client had given him more information about the bounty Achilles was being paid to catch.  What all of that information meant exactly, Achilles wasn’t sure.  Perhaps he would need to pose questions to Ariadne and Paris when he found them.

            But then, that was why Janus’ hired goons were accompanying him, Achilles realized.  So that when he found Paris and Ariadne he would have no moment to ask them the questions that Janus didn’t want him knowing the answers to.

            “I will need my own car,” Achilles requested.  The very least he could do is give himself some independence from the police officers on Janus’ payroll.  Even though Achilles felt could see no easy way out of his current employment, and did not yet know why exactly he would want to give up the possibility of $15000, it was never a good idea to let the client dictate every facet of how he conducted his hunt.

            “Select any of the cars from the garage,” Janus grinned.  “I have a fair collection brought with me when I moved here.  I rarely get to enjoy them.  Perhaps you will find one that suits your needs.”

            Achilles tried to imagine himself in a position where he would ever refer to a collection of cars he owned but never used.  He couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t see himself as that person.  Even with the money to do it, he couldn’t see himself doing that.  He could only see someone else, even if that someone else did have his face.

            “Keep me updated,” Janus ordered one of the two officers.

            “Sure thing boss,” the veiny armed one nodded.  Achilles took an instant disliking to that one.  He was too eager to please.  He was a bought and paid for man.  Achilles had no respect for a man who could allow himself to be owned like that.  The other one…Achilles wasn’t so sure.  Something about his posture was different.  He seemed more cautious in Janus’ presence.  Perhaps there was something to be learned from that as well.

            “Do what I pay you for, Mr. Achilles,” Janus said.

            Achilles nodded and turned to leave the manor, feeling the presence of his babysitters hovering over each shoulder.