Almost Alone

June 20. The Najbreit Estate.

It’s been a little over a week since I’ve moved back home. I spend about an hour each day working with Salome on her art, and I’m left free to decide what to do with the remaining twenty-three.

It is a strange thing, the kind of freedom that I have. I am free to work on my art as I please, but the Najbreits will get first pick of anything that I produce, and partial credit for it on top. I am free to leave the house and go wherever I want, so long as it is one of the chauffeurs on the staff that drives me there. I am free to bum around in my room all day, too, but I know that no second then goes unwatched.

I am free, but I am shackled nonetheless.

I am disconnected from anyone that I could properly call an ally. Ella Sue and Tiffany are both back in LA, and it will be at least two weeks before I see Tiffany again. Claire spends most of her nights in a Manhattan penthouse, and has only come by the house once in the last week, to talk with Father about something hush-hush. She left before I even found out that she was here. It’s a big house.

Then, there’s Erin. I don’t know how I’m going to get back in touch with her. My new phone is just a regular off-the-shelf thing, nothing special except for the AMA that’s magically on every device that I own. My old phone, or what remains of it, I left with Ella Sue because I know Father’s men will go through all my electronics the moment they get the chance. Truth be told, I could really use some of Erin’s advice right now. She and Genevieve always seem to know what to do.

“Hey, Claude, we’re about to break for lunch, you want to join us?” a young guy dressed in a dirt-stained staff uniform pokes his head into one of the spare lounges, where I was shuffling some old cereal boxes around, pretending to be musing on my art.

“Just a sec, Sanchez, I’ll be right there,” I say, waving him on.

I hardly knew any of the staff back when I used to live here. It never seemed important to do something like sit down and have a chat with them. I knew names and faces and little else about them. They’re just about the only company that I have these days, not that I mind.

I finish up arranging the boxes by hue, and then I follow Sanchez as we head for the staff dining section in the back of the main kitchen.

“So man, what are you working on with those cereal boxes?” he asks, giving me a good-humoured smile, his thick black moustache curling upwards as he does.

He’s a good guy, always smiling. Has a Masters in Forest Technology, too, which is apparently what it takes to be part of the grounds team around here.

“Trying to figure out if I’ve got a real project here,” I say. “I was thinking something like Modern Cereal Killers of America…”

“Nah, too cheesy,” Sanchez grins, shaking his head.

“It would be about sugar and fat and obesity and advertising and a critique about corporate greed,” I say. “But yes, the title is probably too much.”

“Look dude, if you can pull that off, you belong in sales and not art,” he says. A long-haired brunette gal joins us as we pass by a screen door, giving us a friendly wave hello. “Hey Imelda. Anyways, you make a whole lot more money that way,” Sanchez finishes, glancing at me again.

“Hey, it’s what I did too,” she says. “I’m making twice what the National Parks would have offered me at the top of their payscale. You don’t hear me complaining.”

“We were taking about Claude going into sales,” Sanchez says, swatting her on the back. “Not about you.”

“Oh, so sorry for speaking out of turn and sharing my life experiences,” she replies, rolling her eyes and swatting him back.

I’m pretty convinced they’re fucking each other.

“That’s because you’ve got nothing interesting to share,” Sanchez shoots back.

Imelda’s about to say something equally nasty, but I jump in, not wanting to listen to another of their cat-fights.

“So, how are the trees doing?” I ask, as we enter the kitchen via one of the staff entrances.

It’s a bustle inside, the line cooks busy whipping up whatever it is that Father and his guests are going to have for lunch. I’ve barely seen a hint of the old man since moving in. It’s a big house, and I’m not invited to any of his events.

“The shelterwood is coming along nicely, but come on…” Sanchez shrugs, grabbing a plate of chicken and beans off the side table.

“It’s trees we’re talking about,” Imelda laughs, taking her own plate. “It’s not like there’s something to write home about every day.”

We take a seat on the hardwood table at the back of the kitchen, saying hi to some of the other staff who have also breaked for lunch.

“So, any clue what the chefs are all bustling around for? Must be someone important,” I say, watching the pâtissier whip up a soufflé with a technique that even I envy.

“It’s just the Frenchman,” Imelda says. “They always cook up a big meal for him.”

“Oh, he’s coming around again?” Sanchez groans. “That guy has such a massive stick up his ass. What I would do to shove it up even further. Seriously, never a good time when he’s around.”

“What business is he in?” I ask, wondering if I might know him.

“Nah, he’s not a business partner or anything,” Imelda says. “At least, from what the other staff tell me, he’s a private detective or something like that.”

“Goes by Inspector Vidocq,” Sanchez says. “God, imagine calling yourself that. Rumour is, he’s not even actually French.”

“Inspector Vidocq,” I say, raising an eyebrow, trying to conceal my real reaction. “Like the real detective.”

“There’s a real detective named Vidocq?” Sanchez asks.

“Sure, or there was, back in the eighteenth century,” I say. “I doubt he’s still alive after all these years though.”

I clear my plate and set it aside, stroking my chin. I stare off into the distance for a couple seconds.

Imelda shares a look with Sanchez, and then she clears her throat.

“You gonna tell us what you’re thinking of, Claude? You’re not seriously considering the fact that the Frenchman’s an immortal vampire or something?”

“There wouldn’t, by any chance, be a way to spy on the main dining room, would there?” I ask.