Chris Jordan - Torn

Two hours later, on sharp curves straddling the Rocky Mountains, it’s all that keeps him from sliding off the road into a steep ditch or worse.

Having gone to college in upstate New York, Shane thought he knew about snow, but this is another world entirely. The scale here is much, much bigger. The sheer mass of the mountains makes him feel insignificant, a bug clinging desperately to his little path in the wilderness. Plus it seems to have messed up his orientation. In the flatlands, near large bodies of water-areas like, say, the East or West Coast-he always has a pretty good sense of direction. In the midst of high mountains, with hard-blown granular snow diffusing the waning sunlight, he has to rely on the in-dash GPS unit. Couldn’t on his own have pointed north if his life depended on it.

According to the GPS, Conklin is a mere seventy miles from Denver as the crow flies. But crows don’t fly at this altitude, certainly not in this weather, and by geographical necessity the actual road distance between the two points is about double that. Snow and caution, and the desire not to plummet uselessly to his death, means that by the time Shane finally arrives at the Conklin security checkpoint, night has fallen and he’s creeping along like some old geezer in the go-around-me lane.

He powers down the window of the Grand Cherokee, grins into the chilly darkness.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to your prosperity,” the guard recites without a trace of irony. “Please state your name and your business.”

“Ronnie Gouda, like the cheese,” Shane says. “RG Paving, out of Dayton, Ohio. Here for the seminar.”

He hands over his ID and charge card-fully functional duplicates kindly supplied by Maggie Drew-and waits as the guard returns to the checkpoint, a structure that resembles one of those titanium wave-front museums by Frank Gehry. Fully illuminated, fully staffed, fully armed, the BKS logo prominent on all uniforms. Shane has seen international border crossings that look less imposing. The security officers are cool and cordial, bearing no resemblance to the usual bloated rent-a-cops employed at most gated communities.

There are two lanes on either side of the checkpoint, one for civilian vehicles, the other for tractor trailers, and as Shane waits, peering through the windshield wipers, guards actually open up a trailer and inspect the cargo, carefully matching it against a manifest.

Disturbingly thorough.

A few minutes later Shane is asked to step out of his vehicle.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “I already paid for the seminar. Thought it was all set.”

The guard, a broad-shouldered young female of about thirty, gives him a thin smile. “Nothing wrong, sir. Just procedure. We need to scan your picture, issue a visitor badge, and so on. Please step out of your vehicle.”

Shane steps out of his vehicle. Shivers as a blast of wind rattles his brand-new parka. Like icy hands finding his warmer spots, making him flinch.

Inside the brightly lit checkpoint, all is well. Computer data indicates that Ron L. Gouda, having attended an introductory “What the Rule of One Can Do for You” seminar in Dayton, Ohio, and having paid in full the five-thousand-dollar nonreturnable initiation fee, has qualified for a three-day, all-inclusive Level One seminar at the Conklin Institute.

Obviously they’re not yet aware that the real Ronnie Gouda has just been secretly indicted for rigging state highway contracts, and is playing nice with his new friends in the Justice Department.

Which is a good thing. A very good thing.

Shane gets his picture snapped, is issued a clip-on face badge, plus an electronically coded card that will key open the door to something called a domicile unit.

“Domicile unit?” he asks, genuinely befuddled.

“Bed, bath, study area. You’ll find the D.U. cozy and comfortable. The code card also allows access to the Hive. That’s the cafeteria for the Level One seminars. The Hive has a four-star chef. You’re in for a treat, sir.”

“For five grand I hope so,” Shane says, playing the part of a successful, self-made contractor, figuring the guy would be just a little mouthy, a big dude used to running his own show.

The security guards don’t react to the comment, or to his attitude. No doubt they’ve heard it all before. Their vibe is professional, by the book, and Shane is thinking that if this is how they run the show in the village, breaking through security is going to be a real challenge.

“You’ll need this,” the female guard says, handing him a small plastic device. “Clip it to the visor.”

“What is it?” Shane asks innocently, although he has a pretty good idea what the device is and how it functions.

“Smart tracker,” the guard responds. “We track all vehicles within the village boundaries. No exceptions.”

“Oh yeah?” says Shane, allowing a touch of belligerence to sound in his contractor’s voice, feeling his way into the role. “What if it falls off or gets lost?”

The guard gives him a don’t-mess-with-us look. “If the signal is interrupted, that will be detected by our sensors, sounding an alarm. We are obliged to respond in force.”

“Like what, a SWAT team?”

“A little like that, yeah.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Really?”

“We take security very seriously, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

They wave him through the checkpoint.

Three miles farther on down the road, Shane comes around a steep, dramatic curve, and just as he does so the night sky clears, revealing a bright canopy of stars behind the soaring mountains.

Beautiful but a little spooky, truth to tell.

The whole village is laid out before him, subtly illuminated, as if the architects had the amazing night sky in mind. Nestled into the base of the mountain peaks is what appears at first glance to be a small college campus, attractively frosted by the recent snowfall. The Conklin Institute, no doubt. Higher up the mountainside, he can make out ski lodges and luxury condo complexes of the type he has seen in Aspen. Steep, snow-shedding metal roofs, walls of glass and shingle, some of the windows illuminated by guests-in-residence.

Road signs point him to Domicile One, situated on the lower level, directly across from the campus. Despite the name it looks very much like a chain hotel, and the folks at the front desk look like ordinary hotel employees, uniformed in sky-blue blazers, neat haircuts, and well-trained smiles.

Overnight bag in hand, Shane scuffs the snow off his boots before stepping into the lobby. Wanting the staff’s first impression of him to be favorable. Never know when you might need a favor.

“Amazing stars!” he booms, grinning heartily. “Is it always like that here?”

He presents his coded card.

“Welcome to Conklin, Mr. Gouda. May your stay be profitable.”

“Excuse me? Oh, I get it. Yeah, yeah, I hope so. That’s the idea, right?”

“They’ll explain it all at the seminar, sir.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Let me ask you, I couldn’t get a signal out there in the parking lot. Is there a problem with cell phones? I gotta make some calls.”

The desk manager, baby-faced and as generically friendly as a battery-powered puppy, smiles happily. “Cell reception is spotty, Mr. Gouda. There’s a telephone in your unit. Feel free to use it-there’s no extra charge.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Shane the contractor, thinking that a place as well-organized as this would have a cell tower if it so desired. So if visitors are being directed to a locally wired phone system, there has to be a reason. The security service likely monitors the guests’ calls. Ah, paranoia.

“The Hive opens for breakfast at 6:00 a.m. Don’t miss it-they make a mean pancake. Your seminar begins at 8:00 a.m. sharp, in Profit Hall. Just follow the signs. And a reminder-the doors to the hall close at precisely eight. No one is admitted after that, and failure to attend means your invitation will be automatically revoked.”