by A. M. Hooper
****
“And the Sun's lead, 81 – 75,” a voice boomed through the loud speaker. Specs of purple and yellow flitted across the court below. “Denicker goes for the shot . . . it's in! That's the fourth three for Denicker this quarter.”
“Yeah, you know, last season he seemed to have trouble with . . .” the second sports announcer began. I tuned out his voice.
My eyes darted from the court, trapped by Dominic's icy gaze. What was he going to do with me? With my dad? I felt my heart rate increase. It beat rapidly and irregularly. I couldn't believe Cephas had left us in here—alone. We had been sitting here for over three hours. My mouth opened instinctively to allow my heart more oxygen. Dominic turned, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He walked casually across the room, regaining his seat on the white sofa. The contrast between the white sofa and his black suit was striking, defining every move he made.
“So Emmaline, tell me about yourself,” Dominic began.
“I like long walks on the beach and dancing in the moonlight. You?” My voice edged with hatred. I generally tried to find something likeable in everyone, but this man didn’t deserve even a second thought. His trademark devilish grin appeared as he casually inspected his nails.
“I can see you're not in the mood for small talk; that doesn't make you very affable, my dear,” he observed.
“Your feigned curiosity in trivial matters, however, is quite endearing,” I responded, the sarcasm thick in my voice. I habitually rolled my eyes.
“Better than no curiosity at all,” he said, now inspecting the other hand. “You don't seem to want to know anything about me. Are you not a curious person?”
“On the contrary, my curiosity is always peaked,” I smiled graciously. “That's why, as you may have noticed, my vocabulary is impeccable; I was curious about the English language, so I studied the dictionary.”
“That sounds . . . extremely time consuming and altogether boring,” he replied, losing interest in the conversation. Good. Though Cephas had betrayed me again—used me again—I saw no other choice than to move forward with the plan Cephas had concocted. I had to get my dad’s attention without Dominic’s knowledge.
“Oh, not at all. Everything you could ever need to know is in the dictionary.” Dominic grunted, his mind already wandering to another place. I glanced over at my dad, whose eyes darted occasionally in my direction as he listened intently to the conversation. I raised my eyebrows at him, and my eyes traveled to the pocket dictionary on the desk. The scraps of paper Cephas had brought with him lay scattered next to the dictionary. My dad's eyes narrowed. Please figure it out, dad. He looked at the dictionary and sat slowly back in his seat, looking up to the right. That was his thinking face. I'd seen it many times. Fingers grazing the papers before him, he quickly evaluated the visible information. His hand moved up to his face, pointer finger balancing on his rounded chin.
“What are you thinking about, Mr. Brickard?” Dominic piped up, looking at Dad for a moment.
“Hmm?” he muttered, not entirely leaving his thoughts. “Oh, nothing.” Dominic rolled his eyes.
“The two of you aren't very entertaining,” Dominic complained, remaining in his seat. My dad spun slightly in his chair, wiggling the mouse to turn on the computer screen. He pulled the drawer open, rummaging through it.
“What are you doing over there?” Dominic asked. His eyes narrowed, suspicion lacing his words. My dad pulled a small cloth out of the drawer.
“Just finding something to polish my glasses,” he replied, holding up the cloth. “I'm no good with smudged glasses.” He smiled innocently and pulled off his spectacles, rubbing them systematically. Holding them up to the light, he peered with bagged, squinted eyes to evaluate his work. He turned his attention back to the computer screen, setting the cloth on the desk near the keyboard and replacing his black-rimmed glasses. I saw his hand fidget around the back of the white keyboard as his eyes jumped around the computer screen. He plugged a flash drive into the USB port. I breathed out a sigh of relief. His fingers slid to the keys, jumping rapidly across the buttons. Clearing his throat the way he always did when he was nervous, he went about his work. The keys titillated in the background. Dominic narrowed his eyes again.
“And what, sir, are you about on the computer?”
“Just making sure I still remember how the system works. Wouldn't want to screw up the money transfer.”
“So who's the money getting transferred to?” I piped up. I still wasn't sure how this whole thing worked. “If you don't mind my asking.” A devilish victory grin crossed his face and he decided to respond.
“Alas, you are curious. The money will be transferred into accounts previously designated by each of the spectators involved. I'm sure you're aware by now that I control the NBA. Each gambler will receive his money within five minutes of the last buzzer.”
“But, if everyone is winning, how do you make money?”
“Good question,” he acknowledged, standing to pace across the room. “This time, when the Suns win, each of the betters will receive a wire transfer. Next time—” he spun on his heels to face me. “Next time, my team will win. That's how I make money.”
“Why would they keep betting money?” I asked. Rapid taps sounded beneath our conversation as my dad quickly typed on the keyboard.
“The trick is to make everything seem normal. You know, let the spectators win every now and then.”
“You seem to be a very apt businessman. Where did you learn all of this?” I asked, trying to keep his attention on me instead of my dad. I glanced in my dad’s direction—he was flipping through the pocket dictionary.
“I learned mostly from my father's bad experience with busi—” he stopped midsentence and stood still. “Mr. Brickard, what are you doing? You seem very busy over there,” he demanded, beginning to walk toward him. A beep, followed by fuzz, struck the air. A muffled voice came across the radio, and an agent stepped forward.
“Uh, sir,” Denicker boomed from near the door. “We've got a red alert. We're gonna have to go.”
CHAPTER 17
“What? What are you talking about—I—” Dominic stammered, caught off guard. Denicker stood, expectant. “Alright: James, Thackar, you two stay with me. The rest of you hurry up.” The men quickly filed out of the room and Thackar, the doorman, moved to close the door. Amidst the crowd, Cephas slipped through the opening before the door shut. A glint caught my eyes—a gun rested in between his thumb and pointer finger. His eyes were gray: they had turned that color when he had nearly beaten James to death. He was ready to kill someone. I felt my heart thumping with such effort that I was afraid someone might see it beating in my chest.
“Cephas, why aren't you going on the red alert?” Dominic asked. His eyes went directly to Cephas’ side, noticing how he fondled the gun holstered there. Cephas didn't waste any time. He pulled the gun out and held it at eye level, pointing the steel barrel at Dominic. Dominic didn't move—he didn't even flinch. Like clockwork, James and Thackar pulled out their guns, aiming simultaneously at Cephas. Cephas took another step toward Dominic, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward. Dominic raised his hand, making a gesture at his two protecting agents.
“Sir?” James asked, confused that Dominic was calling him off.
“You can't kill me,” Cephas answered for him. “I'm the only way to get into the machine.” The smile resonated in his voice. Each agent lowered his weapon, though James's hand lingered over his trigger. Dominic stood as a statue, his black, greased back hair unwilling to wisp out of place. His face was unreadable, unchanging.
“What is this about, Cephas?” he asked calmly, though he clenched his fists tightly at his sides.
“I'm glad to know you didn't see this coming. I guess I'm better at this job than I thought.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, which must be pretty amazing, because I already knew I was the best,” Cephas said, his eyebrow arching in self-approval.
&nb
sp; “Ah, yes. Your mother always made sure of that.”
“Meaning?”
“She always made sure you had the best education, the best training, the best clothing—you were quite a spoiled little brat when we got you.”
“When you took me,” he corrected.
“No, no, you offered yourself up to me—remember? All to save your dear, sweet mother,” Dominic corrected in mock innocence.
“Yes, and it will very soon be well worth the investment.”
“Oh!” Dominic exclaimed, acting quite shocked. “Didn't anybody tell you yet?”
A voice interrupted over the loudspeaker. Dominic glanced at the overhead speakers.
“And the Lakers trail by only two points! What a game, folks. This may go into overtime!”
“Tell me what?” Cephas asked, regaining Dominic's attention. He still pointed the gun at his chest.
“Well, I'm not sure this is the time or the place, boy—”
“What?” Cephas demanded, pulling back the hammer.
“I killed your mother,” Dominic said frankly, his white teeth glinting in the incandescent light. Cephas didn't speak—he didn't move. He simply stood in the same position while black swirled through his eyes. I saw his chest heave up and down. His arrogance gave way to aggravation.
“I don't believe you,” Cephas finally replied, though the confidence was lost in his voice. I had never seen him like this, except on the boat when he admitted—
“Believe whatever you like,” Dominic retorted, interrupting my dot-connecting thoughts, “but I killed her with my own hands—well, with my own gun, rather. I don't like to get my hands dirty.” His face twisted in a disgusted expression.
“Why?” Cephas breathed, taking a step closer to him.
“Why?” he asked in disbelief. “Because using your hands makes a mess, of course.”
“No. Why did you kill my mother?” Cephas shouted. Emotion was taking over his calm demeanor. His chest moved up and down rather quickly and his eyes narrowed.
“She tried to escape. We couldn't have some lunatic running the streets, blundering our little project.”
“You promised she'd be alive when this was over.”
“It is over, Cephas.”
“You didn't have to kill her,” he whispered. I could see water near the corners of his eyes and I felt my heart begin to race. He wasn't thinking with his head anymore. He was too angry. He took another step toward Dominic. The barrel lined up with Dominic's forehead and Cephas caulked his head to the side. “You could have just locked her up somewhere,” he stated clearly, the words coming out through grit teeth in the faintest of whispers. “Why did you kill her?” The gun shook in his trembling hands. It would be simple—he could pull the trigger. Why didn't he?
“Why does James kill people? Why do you kill people? They know too much.”
“I don't kill people!” Cephas shouted, breaking the stale calm that pervaded the death match.
Dominic guffawed. Air blew out of his nose and he rolled his eyes.
“What are you talking about, Cephas? You've killed more people than all of my agents combined!”
Cephas’ breathing increased rapidly. Everyone in the room was still; nobody even flinched. Cephas’ gaze didn't waver from Dominic's face. Usually his eyes were darting around, taking in everything around him. Right now all he cared about was Dominic's life. His focus was disconcerting, at least. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down his temple, slipping over his cheek and hanging onto his chin. He wiped it off with his shoulder and his mouth opened to allow more air into his lungs. Dominic didn't blink. After a moment, I could see Cephas start to regain his composure. His breathing began to decrease, and I could see his confidence slowly returning. The black was leaving his eyes in swirls, and a little blue peaked out from behind the gray.
“You'd be surprised,” Cephas replied. I was thinking his hands must be getting tired from holding a gun out straight for so long when he lowered the weapon to his side. The loudspeaker boomed through the room again.
“Well, Ted, it looks like there's a fight on the court! Yes, Royles is not happy about the last call, and he's taking it out on the official! I've never seen anything like this before!” Dominic's eyes grew wide and he ran to the glass wall. He placed his hands on the ledge and peered down onto the court.
“What's going on?” he demanded of nobody in particular.
“Looks like the Suns are going to lose,” Cephas replied casually. “I wonder how many more times your spectators will want to bet millions of dollars when they lose it all this round?”
Dominic didn't respond. His nostrils flared with heavy breathing and the glass fogged with his breath.
“Cephas, where are my men and what are they doing?” Dominic pressed, his voice bouncing off of the glass in front of him.
“They're searching for Emmaline's mother, but they'll never find her,” Cephas replied casually.
“Because she's dead?”
“No—because I sent them to the wrong place.”
“Wait a minute—my wife . . . she's not dead?” my dad asked, disbelief lining his voice as he stood cautiously from his chair behind the desk. His voice trembled. It was the first time he had spoken since Cephas barged in. Could my mother really be alive? I hadn’t allowed myself to believe Cephas’ tale about my sweet mother. And my father—this was the first he was hearing of all of this. Elation swelled through my chest; if my mother really was alive, then Cephas was telling the truth! That meant he wasn’t an assassin! If my mother was alive, then I could love Cephas! And if Cephas was telling the truth, then maybe he had been sincere when he confessed his love for me! But he had said he made me fall in love with him so he could get to my father . . . which parts was I supposed to believe? Ahhh! This was all so confusing! Every piece of good news somehow twisted into some horrible pothole that screwed up my waning hope. I scowled, and Cephas ignored my father. The loudspeaker interrupted my thoughts once more.
“The owner of Lakers' Stadium has decided he's going to call the game. That's right, folks, both teams will be forced to forfeit this game, which means no playoffs for either team!”
“Run along,” Cephas said smugly to Dominic, who spun abruptly on his heels and marched toward the door.
“James! You come with me. Thackar, you can handle yourself in here?” Dominic asked hurriedly. The doorman nodded and pulled open the latch to the door. Dominic walked over the threshold, the door clicked shut, and Cephas pulled out his gun, aiming it at Thackar.
“Now this is going to go down just as I say, alright?” Thackar didn't move. He stood in his usual position: legs spread shoulder width apart, hands clasped rigidly in front of his suit coat. He didn't even have his gun out. I guess he knew he was no match for Cephas. I remained in my seat, unsure of whether or not to move.
“Mr. Brickard, do you have everything?” Cephas asked, keeping his eyes on Thackar.
“Uh, yes, I think so,” my dad replied, pulling the flash drive out of the keyboard.
“And you copied all of the information . . . and numbers?” Cephas asked, carefully watching Thackar.
“Well yes, but I think you should know—”
“Good. Thackar, the door?” Cephas asked, waving his gun in the direction of the exit. Thackar walked stiffly to the door and pulled it open. He stood at its side, awaiting our departure.
“Thank you, Thackar.” Cephas winked at him with a smirk and motioned for my dad and me to walk out the door. We hurried through the opening, emerging out into a busy, ear-splitting hallway. Fans were standing on their seats, shouting their disgust at the officials. Some of the really upset fans had flooded the court, intent on persuading the officials to keep the game going. I felt a familiar hand on my back. Cephas guided me down the hall, weaving through the crowd of people. He leaned down and whispered in my ear.
“Now listen, Em. I need you to stay calm, alright. No matter what happens—okay?” I barely nodded. I was concentrating on walking
forward. I didn't know what was going to happen; Dominic had killed Cephas’ mother. What would he do to us? We were much less useful than Cephas or his mother. The chaotic noise of the crowded hall kept interrupting my thoughts, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to concentrate on walking. I shook my head to clear out the noise.
Cephas’ thumb rubbed a circle along my back. I glanced up at him. His eyes were darting all over the room. His right hand stayed near his side, ready to pull out his weapon. I swallowed the fear in my throat; it rolled painfully down my esophagus. I stumbled to the side as Cephas pushed me against a wall in the hallway. He kept his hand on my back while he slid a key card through a slot in the door. The red light changed to green and he pulled the handle down. After guiding my father and me through the opening, Cephas closed the door and locked the deadbolt. He kept pushing me, directing me into a chair on the far side of the room. He finally released me and walked briskly over to the desk. Opening a small lap top, he typed in a password. His fingers anxiously, waiting for the screen to finish loading. His eyes shifted erratically between the computer screen and the door.
“Do you have the flash drive?” Cephas asked. My dad pulled the small device out of his pocket and walked over to Cephas. Cephas glanced up at him briefly and took the drive. He plugged it into the USB port and waited for the program to load. I could see a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. He was unusually nervous; a few keys tapped and he stood from his spot at the desk.
