“New beginnings,” he whispered to himself. That’s what Katya had told him when she encouraged him — almost made him, really — seek out Limbus. He started climbing again, and after only a few more steps, he found a sign that directed him down the right corridor. He hadn’t gone far before he stood in front of the Limbus office.
The waiting room itself was relatively bare. The Limbus company logo hung on one wall, a large globe that seemed to sparkle, and Ryan assumed that each tiny point of light indicated an office of the agency. Beside the globe was the picture of a fresh-faced kid younger than Ryan. “Employee of the Month: Dallas Hamilton” was written beneath it. Otherwise, there were only some chairs and the receptionist desk to fill out the room. He didn’t even see any magazines.
The brunette, who he assumed was the receptionist, was sitting behind an ancient looking computer screen, filing her nails and talking loudly on the phone. She winked at Ryan as he walked in, but didn’t bother to interrupt her telephone call to give him any further instructions. Down he sat in one of the grubby chairs across from the logo and waited. He’d begun to wonder if this was all a mistake when the door opened and out stepped a man.
He seemed completely out of place here. Ryan was no expert, but he knew the suit the man was wearing was high-dollar. The lines were too crisp, the shirt too delicate and constantly on the verge of falling into a thousand wrinkles, the tie too bright and the cufflinks too shiny for this ensemble to be a Macy’s special. Apparently, recruiter gigs at Limbus paid well.
“Ah, you must be Mr. Dixson,” he said extending his hand. He smiled, and Ryan couldn’t help but notice that his brilliantly white teeth lined up perfectly. “Of course, you are.”
“Please, call me Ryan.”
“Yes, Ryan. You may follow me.”
The two men went through the door behind the receptionist. She still didn’t say anything, but she did give Ryan a smile and another wink.
“So, Mr. Dixson,” Hawthorne said as he led Ryan down a hallway of what seemed like row after row of empty offices, “we were most fortunate that you contacted us. It is quite difficult to find good help these days.”
“Yeah, about that,” Ryan said, wondering if they would ever reach Hawthorne’s office, “what sort of positions are you looking to fill?”
“Oh,” Hawthorne said, turning and smiling again at Ryan, “all kinds. You can’t even begin to imagine the jobs I’ve doled out over the years. Everything from dog walking to other, more… how shall we say it… esoteric endeavors.”
“Ah.”
“But please, come in and sit down.”
Hawthorne opened a door and made a sweeping gesture to the seat in front of his desk.
“So, Mr. Dixson, I believe we have the perfect job for you.”
“Uh,” Ryan stuttered, shifting in the chair he had only just sat down in, “how would you know that?”
“Oh Mr. Dixson, we do our research,” Hawthorne said, reaching into a drawer beside him and pulling out a sheet of paper. “It’s so easy these days to find out everything you want to know about a person. I mean, your entire life is on the Internet. Did you know that, with a simple search, I can find the address of every place you’ve ever lived? Every parking ticket you’ve ever had? It’s amazing really. Of course,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head, “I’ve always preferred the more old-fashioned methods. I find the tried and the true to be more reliable, don’t you think?”
Ryan looked at the strange man sitting across from him and a sense of unease settled uncomfortably on his shoulders. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Ah, yes, of course not.” Hawthorne put his elbows on the desk and picked up a rather attractive fountain pen. “Do forgive me. I tend to ramble on occasion. A bad habit, no doubt. But in any event,” he said, uncapping the pen and placing it on the piece of paper, “we should get down to business.”
He slid the document to Ryan, who leaned over in his chair and looked at it. “Employment Contract,” it read in big, bold letters at the top.
“This is what we have available for you.”
Ryan picked up the paper and began to read. “Not much to choose from, huh?”
“Well, you must understand. Our reputation is built upon our ability to provide the perfect candidate for every job.”
“Wow, Boston? You couldn’t find somebody closer?”
“As I said, our clients expect the perfect candidate. And in this case, that candidate is you. You will of course be compensated for the inconvenience. And, as you can see, the remuneration is quite significant.”
“Yes, I see that. Though you are a little short on the details here.”
In fact, the document Ryan held in his hands was completely devoid of details. The only concrete thing it provided was that the job was in Boston. Under the job description the document read only, “Perform instructions adequately, not failing to see the job through to the end.”
“Yes, about that. I know this is unusual, but I must request that you sign the document before I tell you what the job entails.”
Hawthorne saw the look on Ryan’s face and held up his hand. “Let me explain. The details are quite sensitive. Once you have heard them, you can back out if you wish, but we need you to be bound by the confidentiality clause. If you decide the job is not for you, we will pay you a hundred dollars, no questions asked.”
“But I didn’t see a…” Ryan looked down at the contract, and sure enough, there was a confidentiality clause at the bottom. He would have sworn that it had not been there before, but there it was, nonetheless. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it’s not illegal, is it?”
Hawthorne responded as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, laughing to the point of cackling, before trailing off into a simple, “No.”
“Alright,” Ryan said uneasily, though swayed by the thought of what he could get for the easy hundred, “that seems reasonable, I suppose.”
Recruiter Hawthorne watched as Ryan signed, the amiable smile never leaving his face. “Excellent. Now it is time to discuss your assignment. A week ago, a fourteen-year-old girl named Angela Endicott was kidnapped from her home in the Beacon Hill area of Boston.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ryan said, throwing up a hand as if to defend himself from some assault. “What is this, man? Shouldn’t that be something for the police to handle?”
Hawthorne frowned, obviously irked at being interrupted. “The police have been notified, I assure you. Her parents are cooperating with them fully. As of yet, they have no leads, nor do we believe they will find any. The culprits are professionals of the highest order.”
“Was there a note? A ransom or whatever?”
“Nothing. There has been no communication between the kidnappers and the authorities whatsoever. It is as if she simply disappeared into thin air. If there is evidence to be had on her whereabouts or her ultimate fate, the police have not found any.”
“Wow. And so now the parents have contacted you for help?”
“Not the parents, Mr. Dixson, the uncle. The parents are wealthy, yes, but the girl’s uncle is extravagantly so. Only he could afford our considerable fee.”
Ryan couldn’t help but glance around the barren white walls of the office, decorated only with the stains of previous tenants. Hawthorne took note.
“We spend our money wisely, Mr. Dixson. And we long ago found that office space and the baubles and trinkets that often fill it are not a high priority. We put value in our talent, and we pay them accordingly.”
Ryan nodded. “Understood. I meant no offense.”