Outside, Jen was incensed. "Casting? I can't believe he thought we looked like actors." (Most Innovators don't like actors, who are, by definition, imitators.)
"I don't know, Jen. You gave a pretty convincing performance in there."
She glared at me.
"Of course," I added, "they could be shooting an ad for the shoe."
"Well, I'd be into that, I guess. But the thought that we came over from central casting…" She shivered.
The navy yard was almost empty on a Saturday, the open spaces dizzying after the narrow streets of Manhattan. We walked under giant arches of rusted metal speckled with flaking paint, crossed paved-over railroad tracks that raised long ripples in the asphalt. We wandered between ancient, empty factories and prefab metal hangars lined with the growling butts of air conditioners.
"Here it is," I said.
The name Two-by-Two Productions was stenciled on a huge sliding door set into an old brick building you could have hidden a battleship in.
I felt my nerves starting to tingle: this was the moment where Jen would take over, leading us through some roundabout, dangerous, and probably illegal means of entry.
But there was no point resisting fate.
"So how do we get in?" I asked.
"Maybe this way?" Jen pulled at the huge handle of the door, and it slid open. "Yeah, that worked."
"But that means…"
Jen nodded and held up her Wi-Fi bracelet, which sparkled. She fingernailed a tiny switch to douse its light and whispered, "It means that they're here, probably packing up for the move. Better be quiet."
Inside, it was pitch black.
We crept among formless shapes, engulfed in a lightless silence. Jen bumped into something that scraped angrily against the concrete floor. We both froze until the echo trailed away, suggesting a vast space around us.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the cluster of objects around me felt somehow familiar, as if I had visited this place before. I forced my eyes to resolve shapes from the darkness. We were passing through a small group of tables, a few overturned chairs resting on them.
I reached out and brought Jen to a halt with a tug.
"What does this look like to you?" I whispered.
"I don't know. A closed restaurant?"
"Or a set that's supposed to look like a restaurant. Sort of like the one in the Poo-Sham ad." I ran my fingers across one of the chairs, trying to recall the advertisement. "Where the guy orders lack of ram."
She looked around. "Are you sure?"
"No." I squinted into the darkness, letting shapes form before my eyes. "Are those old theater seats over there?
"Why would they be?"
"There was a scene in a theater. Where the usher gets all tongue-tied."
"Why would they build a theater on a sound stage?" Jen shook her head. "We're in New York, land of theaters, and they couldn't go on location?"
"Huh." I crossed to the group of seats. It was only five or so rows, maybe ten seats across, with a red velvet curtain hanging as a backdrop. But Jen was right. It seemed like a crazy expense in a city full of real theaters, not to mention restaurants. "Maybe they wanted a controlled situation. Absolute secrecy."
"Maybe they're just nuts," Jen said.
"That's one thing I'm pretty sure—"
"Shhh. "Jen stood stock-still in the darkness. She cocked her head and pointed to our left.
I heard a voice echoing across the cavernous space.
"Is that who I think it is?" Jen whispered.
I peered through the gloom toward the sound, listening intently. The barest sliver of light glimmered from the other side of the cavernous studio, a band of illumination creeping from under a door, wavering along its length as someone walked past on the other side. The voice continued, the words consumed by the distance but the strident tone utterly familiar.
It was Mandy Jenkins, sounding very annoyed.
Chapter 30
I LOWERED MY VOICE BELOW A WHISPER, JUST BREATH: "KEEP QUIET."
Among the shadowy, jumbled shapes, quiet meant slow. We moved like deep-sea divers, taking slow-motion steps, waving our hands in front of us in the darkness. As we grew nearer, eyes still adjusting, the glow from under the door seemed to grow brighter. The texture of the concrete floor became clearer, its pitted surface lit by the sidelong light like craters on the moon.
Gradually I began to make out that there were other doors along this wall of the studio. Most were dark, but a few showed glints of light under them. More sounds came dully through the wall, grunts and scrapes, the movement of heavy objects across the rough floor. A few metal ladders disappeared up into darkness above us, where a catwalk wound its way around the outside of the studio, accessing a steel framework hung with movie lights and sound equipment.
The door we'd first spotted stood out, the light around its edges glowing fiercely, and I imagined a blinding interrogation lamp pointed at Mandy's face across a bare table.
A sentence formed out of the muffled hum of her voice. "I think you've got this all wrong!"
The reply was too quiet and steady for me make out any words, but it sounded coolly threatening.
The scrape of a chair came from behind the door, then footsteps.
Jen threw herself behind some huge piece of equipment, waving frantically for me to follow. The sliver of light grew darker as someone approached.
I took a few panicked, silent steps to join Jen, crouching beside her just as the door opened, spilling an arc of light across the huge studio. Cowboy boots and red-and-white client shoes swept across my view— NASCAR Man (also known as Futura Garamond) escorting Mandy across the gray concrete expanse.
Darkness wrapped itself around them as the door swung closed, but then illumination poured from overhead, a row of work lights popping on. Jen pulled me farther back behind our hulking piece of equipment just as Futura Garamond looked our way, his hand still on the switch.
I swallowed, pressed hard against Jen, my heart beating frantically. Had he heard my footsteps? Seen us?
"Hello?" he called.
We stayed frozen until he shook his head and guided Mandy to another door a dozen yards away, pulling it open. She went in alone, and Garamond let it swing closed behind her with a click.
"I'll be back," he said through the door, then turned and disappeared up one of the ladders, cowboy boots clanking on metal. Peering upward through the catwalk, we watched him clomp right over our heads. Then his footsteps faded.
Jen and I stayed still for a moment, still clinging to each other. Was he still up there, looking down? Waiting for us to emerge? Or did the catwalk lead off into some other part of the building?
After long seconds of waiting Jen said, "Come on."
We crept toward the door through which Mandy had disappeared, me looking up at the dangling work lights. I felt naked in the light, but Garamond, wherever he was, might notice if they clicked off again.
When we got to the door, Jen reached out and softly grasped the knob, turning it as carefully as a safecracker.
She shook her head. Locked.
I put my ear to the cold metal and heard nothing. This must be where they kept Mandy between interrogations. What were they trying to do? Learn the client's marketing secrets? Dig up dirt on their overseas operations? Find out more about me?
Whatever the anti-client wanted from Mandy, now was the time to rescue her. And quickly. Futura Garamond had said he was coming back.
Jen mimed a knock on the door, a questioning look on her face.
I quickly shook my head. The last thing we needed was Mandy calling out, asking who we were. Her sharp voice was famous for its ability to get the attention of unruly focus groups.