The Maya 1.18
Previously On The Maya...
Jim Layton gives George Kirkegaard a ride to his home on the Isle of Use. Kirkegaard is immediately fascinated by all he sees—Layton's island-made car, the clean streets, the flock of shoppers, and the lack of public transportation. Everything looks new, and yet, there's an older styling to it all. Retro is the word Kirkegaard uses to describe things. They've passed through busy intersections with cars entering from four different directions without incident while talking about the demographics of the Isle of Use when Kirkegaard asks:
"Is it seriously called the Isle of Use?"
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
"Yes," Layton said. "Do you know why?"
"Everything here is for man's use?"
"That's right. How did you know?"
"I guessed. It was the simplest explanation I could come up with."
"Do you know anything about the island yet?"
"Very little. Just what..." Kirkegaard was about to say Amara, but that sounded a little too familiar for someone he just barely met and would never see again. He certainly didn't want to give Layton any ideas. He edited himself midstream instead. "...a passenger on the plane told me."
"I'm surprised anyone talked to you on the plane." Layton's brow furrowed, like he found that troubling. "Mostly, the business people keep to themselves."
"Well, it surprised me, too," Kirkegaard said. "You've met Agent Smith, apparently?"
"I think most everyone does, sooner or later," Layton said, "He gives presentations in schools and workplaces about the IPB. He happened to be scheduled at the newspaper office last month and we talked for a while after the presentation. We ran a story on him."
They left the commercial area and passed through neighborhoods. Kirkegaard noticed that the homes and lots closest to downtown were smaller, but as they progressed, the homes grew larger and farther apart. Then he noticed something else was missing. So far, no apartment buildings.
He was about to ask Layton about that, when they made a right hand turn onto a street named Camille. Layton slowed, which gave Kirkegaard ample opportunity to study the homes. There were plenty of differences between them—some single story, a lot of them two, with different kinds of roofs, colors and styles—but all were nicely maintained, with attractive landscaping. He noticed there weren't any cars parked in the driveways or on the street. When he asked, Layton said nearly everyone had garages large enough to park all their cars inside.
They turned left on Sherry Lane and then pulled into a circular driveway with a bubbling fountain shrouded by palmettos. The house itself was a two-story stucco with tiled roof, arches and gables. Instead of Southwestern or Mediterranean, it had more of a Victorian feel to it. There was a stone wall that enclosed the property on three sides and closed up at the ends of the house. As they approached the garage, the left door slid open on its own.
"No remote?" Kirkegaard asked, fascinated.
"Proximity activated," Layton said, "From a unique signal sent from the car."
"And you don't use a key to start it."
"Nope. That's a thumbprint. Same to unlock the doors."
Layton brought the car inside. As he did, Kirkegaard gave a low whistle. The garage was huge. There was another vehicle there, a large SUV of some sort, but again, not of a familiar make or model. There was ample room for at least two more cars, however. The walls were lined with oak cupboards and metal shelves where all kinds of things sat—cans filled with different kinds of freeze dried foods, crates of water bottles, paper products, camping equipment, pots and pans. It resembled a small store.
"So, just how big is this house? And the property?" Kirkegaard asked, getting out.
"The house is just over three thousand square feet, and the lot is two-and-a-half acres." Layton came around and retrieved Kirkegaard's bag.
"Nice," Kirkegaard said. Jim must be doing really well for himself. He felt a twinge of dejection, but surprisingly, it didn't last very long.
"Guess how much."
"For the house?"
"House, land. Everything."
"Oh, I don't know," Kirkegaard said. "That's none of my business."
"How much do you think it would cost in the Willamette Valley, then," Layton said.
Kirkegaard shrugged. "Two hundred-fifty thousand. Three hundred thousand because of the land. Maybe more?"
"One hundred sixty-five thousand," Layton said. He waited for Kirkegaard's reaction, which was raised eyebrows and a slack jaw. Then he opened the door to the house.
"How old is it?"
"Not quite a year," Layton said.
"That's a good price."
"Well, hello, stranger." Marie Layton appeared in the doorway. Kirkegaard almost didn't recognize her. Same voice, hair and eye coloring, but something wasn't quite right. Did she look...younger?
"Nice to see you again, Marie," Kirkegaard managed to say. She came down the steps into the garage and embraced him warmly.
When she stepped back, she looked at Layton, then Kirkegaard and said, "Are you two going to hang out here or are you going to come in?"
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.