The Johnson Estate

Four hours by plane and another three by limo. That's how long it took to reach the estate of Cormac Johnson, billionaire, tech-guru, and charming businessman. The estate, out in the middle of the mountains of Coloardo, was as close as you could get to isolated without leaving the country to some obscure island in the middle of the Pacific, or the far northern reaches of the arctic, where the summers were cold and the winters were uninhabitable. John Doe was more than exhausted after the trip, though the private jet he had taken and the limousine that brought him from the private airport to the stone steps of the grand castle-like estate had been comfortable enough, he was looking forward to finding his new quarters, dropping off his luggage, and collapsing into bed.

Out in the mountains, John felt strangely alone. There were no planes flying overhead, no trucks rumbling back and forth hauling heavy cargo. The notifications on his phone had ceased. Communications were run on a closed circuit limited to, and only to, the estate grounds. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, raising his fist to use the large dragon-head knocker in the dead center of the rich mahogany doors. Before he could touch the brass, the door swung open, and there stood a tall, old skinny man with tired eyes and whitening hair. "Ah you must be Mr. Doe. Please do come in." The old man beckoned John inside and closed the door behind him. "My name is Martin Woodsworth. Feel free to call me Mr. Woodsworth. I am the head butler around here. You arrived sooner than we had anticipated. Mr. Johnson is slightly preoccupied at the moment, but he shouldn't be for long." He raised his wrist to his mouth. Upon it was some sort of black wristband hidden just beneath the cuff of his suit. He pressed his thumb against the black band and spoke. "Mr. Johnson, Mr. Doe has arrived. Yes, I've already told him you won't be long. Yes, right away, sir." He released his thumb, then turned back to John. "Mr. Johnson will be right with you. I have to attend to something elsewhere, just stay here and wait patiently." Before John could say another word, Woodsworth was off through a set of double doors opposite the entrance, leaving him to his own devices in the center of the grand entrance hall of the manor. And my god, was it grand.

The ceiling was at least three stories tall, and fitted with a crystal chandelier the size of a car. The floor was some sort of marbled tile, made of white and silver shades, and polished so well that if someone were to wear a skirt, John would be able to look down and see right up it. Engraved into the floor was a massive compass rose. South was the direction he had entered from. North was the direction Woodsworth had disappeared to. A dual set of arched imperial stairs rose to meet the balcony of a second floor. Marble railing lined the stairs as well as the balcony. To the east was a single door, white as ivory, though certainly not actually ivory. Beside that door hung a mural. A large painting ten feet wide by five feet tall. It was a photo-realistic acrylic of the valley where the estate was settled. To the west was a double door, on rails rather than on hinges. Flanking each side of the door was a pair of suits of armor. French, by the looks of it. Unlike the ivory doors, however, these were genuine.