Page 44 of Witness 8

The Desert Dragon ranch in Jackson, Wyoming, was not located in a desert, nor did it have anything to do with dragons. The smallholding of a hundred acres had cost Charlie Hutchings a pretty penny – five million dollars.

He had made that money back in less than a year.

In the last ten years, the valley of Jackson Hole had become home to a new kind of prospector – multi-millionaires. The cowboys, farmers and small-town folk were finding it hard to adjust to these immigrants from New York City, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Wyoming, with its mountains, lush green grass and empty spaces, had become home to a host of new tech companies.

The rush to Wyoming was fueled by its tax laws.

Corporations in Wyoming pay zero tax. The sales taxes are also some of the lowest in the United States. This was Switzerland to greedy tech companies and their CEOs.

Charlie Hutchings saved seven million dollars in income tax the first year.

The only problem was Charlie had to register his companies, and keep their profiles low, hiding his involvement through a string of shell companies, leaving a long and complicated trail. He was a wealth manager, from Chicago. A very successful one. Wyoming was nothing like Chicago – it was hard to findgood pasta, and there wasn’t much in the way of theatre in the mountains. Still, Jackson Hole was the perfect place for Charlie.

He had needed a deep hole to hide in.

But it wasn’t deep enough.

The man in his kitchen had found him, about an hour ago.

The man was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. The fedora he’d worn when he arrived was hung on Charlie’s coat rack, beside the man’s trench coat. It had taken the man about two weeks to find Charlie. He had put in the time online, tracing all those companies right back to this bald, middle-aged Charlie, sweating through his pajamas in his dining chair.

The man in black poured hot water on ground coffee that sat in a filter over a glass dome. He had slow, deliberate movements. Graceful. Like a dancer. His voice had a mellifluous quality, as if he savored every syllable of every word. His language was formal, yet warm. Like a benevolent official in a position of enormous power.

‘So, Charles, tell me, what do you think of Marlon Brando?’ asked the man as he put down the kettle.

Charlie was finding it hard to breathe. The panic that had set in as his arms and legs were duct-taped to his Baccarat dining chair had not subsided. If anything, Charlie’s fear had only increased.

Between gasps, he said, ‘You mean the actor?’

‘But of course,’ said the man, sweeping his hand through his blond hair.

‘I-I-I don’t know. Do you like him?’ asked Charlie.

The man stared at the water filtering through the coffee grounds and dripping into the flask below.

‘Come, come, Charles. We’re all friends here. This is not a trick question. But, to put you at your ease – yes, I like him very much.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s great,’ said Charlie, and finished his sentence with a breathy wince.

‘Relax,’ said the man. ‘You’ll hyperventilate. Breathe with me. We’re going to try the physiological sigh. Do you know what that is?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘You’re going to take a big breath in. Deep as you can, and then, you’re going to inhale a second time. Your lungs will already be quite full, but, trust me, you can manage another brief inhalation. You’re going to hold all of that air for three seconds and then exhale slowly. Are you ready?’

Charlie nodded, vigorously.

The man turned toward him, and to assist Charlie, he moved his hands over his chest as if conducting the air, puffing his chest at the second inhalation, then turning his hands over, delicately, and brushing them downwards to the floor as he exhaled. It was like watching a great maestro conduct an orchestra. The man’s movements were almost hypnotic. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Charlie breathed in and out on his command.

‘Feel better, Charles?’ asked the man.

Charlie nodded. His chest no longer rose and fell like an old bellows. His eyes shot to the medical bag that sat on the dining table. It was old, black leather with a metal clasp at the top. Charlie knew enough about the man in his kitchen to be afraid of what might be in that bag.

‘That’s just a little tip for you. It’s proven to lower anxiety levels. Now, where were we? Yes, Brando. I’ve been revisiting his oeuvre lately. Student of Stella Adler, you know.’

A confused look spread over Charlie’s face. So far, the man had not harmed him. There had been no violence, apart from being secured to the chair with duct tape.

The man in black removed the filter from the flask and poured fresh, hot coffee into one of Charlie’s mugs. He tasted it, nodded agreeably at Charlie and continued his speech.