by A. M. Hooper
“What has?” I asked. He didn't respond, just stared at the map.
“So we probably won't die, but we might,” I finally concluded.
“Nah, I'm pretty sure that shaft will be clear of methane.”
“But what if you're wrong?”
“I'm never wrong. At least, I haven't been in twenty-two years.”
“Is that how old you are?” I asked. I didn't know anything about him, not really, anyways. I couldn’t even be sure of the few things I did know—everything had been a lie.
“Yeah. Last December,” he mumbled. I took a deep breath before asking my next question.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, nearly choking on the words.
“Of course not,” he said in all seriousness while he studied the map. He acted like it was a stupid question, barely acknowledging my concern. Indignation rose in my throat, but I simmered my emotions. A more important quest for information was at hand.
“Cephas, we're—we're safe now, right?” I asked.
“Why, are you scared?” he asked, still perusing the map.
“No, but you said you'd explain everything as soon as we were safe.” He glanced over at me and sat resolutely on the ground.
“I guess you do deserve some answers,” he acquiesced, crossing his legs and resting his arms on his knees.
“Finally,” I answered dramatically. He laughed uneasily and stared off into the dark cave, looking anywhere but into my face.
“I work for a company without a name,” he began, as if telling a fairy tale bedtime story. “They don't have a name, because they don't exist. If they did, they'd be put in prison.”
“Why?” I asked, glad he was finally telling me some truth.
“They do horrible things,” he replied, still refusing to look me in the eyes.
“Like, take care of problems?” I replied.
“Yes, and I'm their number one man.”
“So you're like, their assassin.”
“That's what they think.”
“What do you mean? You're speaking in riddles, Cephas. Just say what you mean to say.” I was getting frustrated. I didn't know where my dad was, I didn't know who I was with, and I was cold. Being cold always makes everything worse. Cephas looked at me for the first time since we had arrived in the damp cave of death, or so I was choosing to call it.
“I never killed anybody.”
“What are you talking about? You—you killed my mom!” I exclaimed.
“No, I didn't. She's alive.”
“Cephas, don't screw with my head. I was at her funeral. I just visited her grave a few days ago!”
“Was it a closed casket?” he asked, shooting very serious daggers across the distance between our eyes. The room was dark, but I could imagine the light blue color of his eyes—the color they turned when he knew he was right.
“Well, yes, but—”
“She's alive . . . and I know her.”
“But my dad said he saw her die with his own eyes!”
“No he didn't; we staged the whole thing.”
“You what!” Now I was furious. He wasn't making any sense.
“Calm down, or I won't tell you anymore.”
“Fine,” I said, trying to control my rapid breathing. Why did every moment with him have to be so dramatic?
“They said I had to kill her—had to rip her out of his hands and kill her. She knew too much.” His voice was low and somber. “I couldn't do it. But if I didn't, they would kill me.”
“So you had to choose between your life and someone else's,” I offered when he stopped. He nodded.
“But, I couldn't make that kind of decision, so I came up with a plan.” A smile crossed his face as he peered up at me through the darkness.
“What plan?”
“I never killed anybody—I told you. Instead, I erased their identities.”
“How?”
“That's not the important question. The better question is why.”
“Well, I would assume your motive was to save the people.”
“Oh, it's not that simple,” he said. I raised my eyebrows.
“You see, there's this machine. Now are you listening closely? You can easily get confused.” I narrowed my eyes and glared. He put his hands up in surrender.
“Okay, chill, woman. I was just making sure you were paying attention. Now, this machine does something special. It's programmed to wire money in between bank accounts . . . and it's one hundred percent untraceable.”
“That's impossible,” I argued, waving off his explanation.
“It was—until your dad set his mind to the task.”
“What? No, my dad has nothing to do with this. You're wrong.”
“Listen, Em. You're right, he doesn't have anything to do with this, not really. He had a friend who was hard up for money. He knew about your dad's invention, and he found some people interested in purchasing the machine. Your dad was very weary of putting the machine into practice, as it was only a concept. But, wanting to help out his friend, he gave him the plans.” He stopped talking and looked down into the darkness of the tunnel.
"Who was this friend? How do you know about all of this?” I asked. I wrapped my hands around my arms, rubbing the goose bumps away.
“It was my dad. He and your dad were friends,” he said, quickly moving on to the next question. “Now, I have a question for you. You watch the NBA, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, unsure of the direction this conversation was taking. How could our parents have known each other, yet I didn't know Cephas?
“Well, have you ever been watching a professional basketball game and somebody says, 'Do you think the NBA is rigged?'” I tried to stifle a laugh, though I was unsuccessful.
“Have you?” he pressed, his face completely serious.
“Well, ye-yeah,” I stammered, slightly confused. “But that's ridiculous. People just say that because referees make off calls sometimes.”
“It's not an accident,” he stated.
“Are you telling me that the whole NBA was started as a hoax just to make a few dollars?”
“On the contrary, the NBA was started as a legitimate, competitive sport, but it's gone awry under the wrong hands, and now officials throw games so that the mastermind behind the whole thing can make—well, more than a few dollars.” I sat in silence, contemplating what he had just told me. There was no way the NBA was rigged. Too many people had too much to do with the NBA for it all to be a hoax. Somebody would have noticed by now—although Cephas’ job was to kill the people who knew too much . . .
“I don't believe it,” I finally concluded aloud.
“Fine,” he said, standing and dusting off his pants. “Believe what you want. I have work to do.”
“Wait just a second, mister!” I said, raising my voice and standing up to follow him. He glanced back at me but continued walking, picking up his backpack and digging through it. He pulled out a flashlight and swung the bag over his shoulder. I followed as he walked down the small, dark tunnel.
“Cephas, you—you—you—”
“I what?” he asked, annoyance lacing his voice as he spun on his heels to face me. “I made you fall in love with me so I could get to your dad? I use people for my own schemes? I lied to you? I work for a company with no ethics? What! What is it about me that you can't stand, Emmaline?” His raged tone was frightening and his angered face even more terrifying. His eyes grew wider with each statement. He had walked toward me now and was within a step of me. His chest heaved up and down from his infuriated spew of accusations. I took a deep breath.
“I was just going to say that—that you never finished explaining what the NBA has to do with the machine my dad invented.” My voice trailed off, lacking the confidence to fully explain myself. He looked into my eyes and his face softened.
“I'm sorry—I—” he stammered. Rubbing his temples, he looked away and continued explaining. “Dominic needed a way to transfer large sums of mone
y without the government, bank, or anybody else noticing.”
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
“Well, I'm not sure how long Dominic’s had officials throwing games, but now he's involving people from all over the world. He's moving such large amounts of money that someone is bound to notice, so he needed your dad's machine. However, your dad had too many morals to give it to them. He gave the plans to my dad, but he didn't even know what my dad was going to do with it. I hated my dad forever for giving them the machine . . .” his voice trailed off and he looked away. “He did try to make up for it, but they got my mom first. They kept her hidden somewhere, threatening her life for my cooperation. I always did it, all for her—that's why I'm doing all of this.” His voice turned to a whisper. “That's why I kidnapped you, and that's why I made you fall in love with me. I'm sorry, Em.” Each word was very enunciated. His head hung down and I heard him sniffle. Was he crying? I couldn't take it all in—not right now, not when somebody might be coming to kill my dad or me. Cephas needed to focus right now. My emotions could wait. Cephas wasn't going to kill me—of that much I was sure. Though nothing made much sense, I knew I was safe and that Cephas was my best chance of survival. Our confrontation could wait. I slathered my tongue with sass and began to relieve Cephas of his somber emotions.
“Are you crying?” I asked. He looked up at me indignantly.
“No,” he replied bitterly. “Shut up,” he muttered. He rolled his eyes and looked at me. I smiled and I saw the left corner of his mouth twitch upward.
“You're kind of a brat, you know,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Reminds me of the first day I met you.” I bit my lower lip and looked away.
“What's wrong?” he asked, instantly aware of my mood change.
“I can't—I don't know what . . . we are.” I stammered. Great—this was harder than I thought. Apparently my emotions couldn’t wait. I had never had this kind of conversation before. My relationships had never mattered enough to care about even having this type of conversation. It was different with Chase; one day we weren’t together, the next day we were. I guess he wasn't an assassin, though.
“What were we before?” Cephas asked.
“I don't—I don't know. Nothing, I suppose.”
“So we can be whatever we want to be now, since we weren't anything before.” His face was so close—it reminded me of the day at my house when we—No. Push it out of your head, Emmaline.
“I don't know what I want to be—er, what I want us to be, I mean.”
“Which do you mean, really?” he asked.
“What?”
“Is this about us, or you?” he stated, as if answering his own question. I rolled my eyes in frustration.
“Don't talk to me about not knowing what I want to do or be,” I started, allowing blood to rush to my face. “I knew exactly what I wanted to do until you showed up.”
“So it's my fault, is it?” His voice was slow and calm, triggering my temper even further.
“Of course it's your fault! Whose fault would it be? My life was fine without—” He caught me by the mouth, his lips pressed hard against mine. I felt the passion in his kiss and I surrendered. His rough hands surrounded my head, running fiercely through my long, brown hair. I forgot for a moment that I hadn't yet brushed my hair today, and that tattered old clothing donned my relenting body. I told myself this was for Cephas. I would let him kiss me so he could get his emotions out of the way—then he could focus on taking down Dominic. I was lying, though. Despite my anger at Cephas’ betrayal, I was still helpless in his arms. I let Cephas push me up against the wall and release his emotion on me. His mouth worked a fire across mine, and I placed my hands on his chiseled abdomen. It pressed against mine.
His lips were warm, turning my anger into passion. He pulled away from my mouth and leaned his forehead against mine, his rapid breathing mingling with my breath. His cheek rubbed longingly against my forehead and he moved one hand slowly down to my waist, tracing the curve of my body. I felt his left thumb moving below my ear right before he pulled me close and captured my mouth once more. His mouth sought so much passion, his body so much contact. Oh, how I loved for him to kiss me! But oh, how I hated how he kissed me. I knew it was all false. He had said himself that physical touch made me forget my rational thought. And oh, how right he was. He probably just wanted to forget rational thought, too. This was the last time I would ever kiss Cephas Bourdon. I tore my mouth from his and placed my hands against his chest, holding his face at a distance. I would never again fall victim to his distracting mouth. I was determined.
“I like kissing you when you're angry,” he muttered, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You're much easier to deal with.” He bowed his head and caught my mouth again, clasping my face between his hands. He pushed me harder against the wall, his hands traveling along my midriff. His mouth moved away from my face and down my throat. My head tipped naturally upward and I gasped as his lips fondled my neck and shoulder.
“Cephas, stop,” I whispered, pushing softly against his chest. I didn't have the courage to say it forcefully. It was so strange, the power he could exert over me with the simplest touch. He shut his eyes as he stopped, letting his breathing slow with a forlorn sigh.
“Don't play with my mind, Cephas. I can't take it.”
“I'm not playing, Emmaline.” His voice was firm and somewhat demanding, just like his kiss. I still held my hands against his chest, though without much strength. He didn't try to push past them, though.
“Cephas, I don't even know who you are. I could never love you—” I stopped. I felt his body tense instantly. I was lying. I knew I was lying. I loved him so much it was ridiculous. I knew I loved him, and I couldn't deny it. But he was a murderer, and he had lied to me. I didn't even know who he was. Sure, he said he didn't kill my mother, but how many people did he kill before he gained a conscience? He said he had never killed anybody, but how was I supposed to believe him?
“Please don't say that, Em,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“But it was all a lie, Cephas.” I forced my voice to be cold, but I wanted so terribly to cry my heart out. I couldn't let Cephas think that I loved him, or he would have complete control over me and I no strength to resist his enticements. He leaned his forehead against mine.
“It wasn't all a lie,” he said quietly. “You have to know that I would never hurt you; I would never put you in danger.” He laced his fingers through mine. But I was just a means to an end. He couldn't really love me; you can't love somebody and use them at the same time. I was just part of his plan.
“Cephas, you never told me what all of the . . . not-really-dead people . . . have to do with your plan.” His eyebrows raised in sheer surprise and visible offense.
“You just told me you could never love me, and then you ask about a detail in a plan?” He spoke through gritted teeth, attempting to control his emotion. “How am I supposed to respond to that, Em?” He looked so hurt. His tempting voice resonated through the cave and his eyes sparkled like diamonds, but I wouldn’t allow myself to be duped again. There would be no more advantage-taking where I was concerned. I had let someone into my heart—tried to feel the intangible ‘love’ I’d heard so much about—and I had gotten screwed. Not hurt, or slightly used, but screwed. I was going to die, and so was my dad, and I had unwittingly fallen in love with a murderer. Nobody in the history of mankind had ever been as screwed over in matters of love as I had just been. I didn’t hate Cephas—he was only trying to save his mother—but I couldn’t go through so much pain again. I dug up my gumption and responded.
“It's Emmaline. And sometimes love isn't the most important thing,” I responded bitterly.
“In that, my dear, you are very, very wrong.” His voice was definite, and then a motor sounded above the tunnel. Cephas’ eyes grew wide.
CHAPTER 14
“We have to hurry—grab that bag!” he directed, pointing at the ground. I obeyed an
d followed him down the tunnel. We walked a small distance and he gestured toward a brace.
“Tie this to that, then carry this line back to the motorcycle. I'll meet you there in five minutes.”
“You're leaving me by myself?” I asked, unsuccessful at hiding the fear in my voice. He stopped moving.
“I'm sorry, Em. I know you're not used to things like this.” I straightened my back and grabbed the bag from him.
“I am capable—I was simply worried the dark, wet, cave of death could collapse at any moment. I am carrying dynamite, you know.” I walked over to the brace and unzipped the bag.
“Sorry, Em. I didn't mean to—” Cephas began.
“Hurry!” I urged, shewing him away with my hand. I smirked and pulled the dynamite out of the bag. “You're at four minutes now,” I shot after him. I heard his low laugh and he disappeared down the tunnel. Digging through the back pack, I found some wire with which to tie the dynamite to the brace. I worked quickly, twisting the metal with a pair of pliers. I finished and shoved the supplies back into the bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. Holding the wire in between my fingers, I followed the dark path back to the motorcycle. The crunching noise of gravel beneath my tennis shoes echoed through the cave. Tennis shoes? I was wearing my pink high heels last night. Where did I get shoes? Where did I get jeans and a t-shirt? And who changed me? I felt my cheeks burn crimson red. Rocks slipped beneath my feet and I stumbled into the wall. My hand caught my body against the cold, wet surface. Steadying myself, I stood upright and wiped my hand on my pants. I scowled: I hated getting dirty. My hands slapped the sides of my legs violently; I was so off balance, so flustered with the situation. I squinted my eyes and saw the bike's headlights a ways off. Attempting to forget about the frightening creatures that might be lurking along the path in the cave of death, I forced my thoughts somewhere else: they darted instantly to Cephas. He was wandering around the tunnels, doing who knows what. He did have a flashlight, at least. What was he doing anyway? And why was I strapping dynamite to a brace in a mine? I wouldn't be doing any of this if Cephas had never barged into my life. Maybe this is what my dad was warning me about. But how could my dad have known about all of this? I got to the top of the path where the map lay in the light of the motorcycle. I knelt on the ground and perused the map. Three x's marked three separate places in the mine, and a big circle surrounded an entrance across from where I was kneeling. Cephas had drawn a rectangle along a distant shaft, as well as an arrow down a smaller tunnel. What was he planning?
