Hunted

Fifty: Hollywood... or Something?

Matt found himself in an office, high above the city, the views stretching out across the river and down to the bay. He could catch glimpses of the waterfront if he stood close enough to the window, his breath fogging up the glass. The people moving below were like ants, tiny and indistinguishable from the high floor of the towering office block.

Matt turned around to inspect the office once more. It was a corner office, with two great walls of glass. A strange curved desk sat in the room, with a black leather swivel chair behind it and a laptop perched in its centre. A huge red and black abstract painting hung on one of the internal walls, with a dresser, curved similarly to the desk, beneath it. There was nothing personal about this office, its owner obviously separating personal life from work life. Even small furnishing only consisted of potted plants.

"Mr Desmarais?"

Matt looked up to meet the quizzical gaze of a man in his mid-forties, his hair streaked with grey and his face unshaven, grasping a paper coffee mug, and grinning broadly. The man was dressed dapperly in a tailored suit, his greying hair combed perfectly in place.

"Good morning," Matt replied, though he would rather skip the formalities.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you. I hope you are recovered – stab wound was it?" he asked, rounding the strangely curved desk and sitting down.

"Yes," Matt nodded, taking the seat that was offered to him. Matt didn't need to tell this man that his speedy recovered was only possible with the help of Harris and his expertise.

"Can I get you anything – tea, coffee, water?" he asked, placing down his paper cup and stretching.

"No – no, I'm okay," Matt said in a weary voice. "Mr Fiennes, I'm sorry, but I have wasted enough time. You know what I am looking for and yet you are still reluctant".

"Mr Desmarais, what you are asking is... ludicrous? No – not what you are asking, but what you are telling us. These children you claim are being kept on this island, the likes of Charlotte Owens, and those others you have mentioned... all in one place? All unknown to international bodies such as ourselves? It's absurd. Not only that, but the claim that they possess... supernatural powers," he frowned, trying supress a smile. "It's just all a little bit... Hollywood".

"Mr Fiennes, I assure you that this place is very much real. I can give you the coordinates," he said in a tight voice. "All I am asking is that you check it out. If I am wrong I will take whatever sanctions you want against me, but please. I know this place exists. My father owns the bloody thing..."

"Mr Desmarais, honestly it is a... nice thought that all these missing people are in the one place, but it's... just beyond the realms of reality," he shrugged, taking a noisy slurp from his coffee.

"And the girl who stabbed me? The police saw her just appear and then vanish into thin air. They saw the others taking Charlotte Owens," Matt urged through gritted teeth. "Are you telling me that they are making it up too?" Matt pressed.

"A trick of light, a fancy show – Mr Desmarais, I fear that these so-called criminals, who supposedly took Miss Owens... again... were feeding into your... eh, delusions," Mr Fiennes, breathed with a barely concealed smirk.

Matt gazed at him for a moment before smiling. "Fine," he said, standing up. "I'm sorry for being such an inconvenience and occupying your obviously scarce time". Matt moved to the door as Fiennes stood up, frowning after him for a moment.

"Mr Desmarais, I am sorry we couldn't be of assistance, but the FBI need to focus their time on actual leads, not fantasies," he responded.

Matt paused for a moment and raised his eyebrows as he grinned. "Mr Fiennes, all I am asking you to do is look. If I am wrong, I am wrong. If I am not, I'm not, but I feel looking is at least all you could do, because when it goes public that these children are being kept in a known location and you are not looking for them, the world is going to be pretty angry," he sighed.