Perfect Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  This time, I do laugh. “You’re insane. Totally, completely nuts.”

  He stands and adjusts the fall of his jacket with a graceful tug. “I can see it’s going to take some time for you to remember who you are.” Striding to the door, he knocks twice on the metal surface, then glances back at me. He’s no longer bothering to hide his disgust. “You’ll have twenty-four hours to consider your choices. I’ll expect a full recovery and an apology for all the worry you’ve caused me. Then we’ll discuss the future.”

  My skin prickles hotly. “You’re a madman,” I whisper.

  The door opens and I catch a glimpse of a hard-faced man. Rudy steps through but pauses before closing the door. I’m not surprised—he loves having the last word.

  “Remember, dear London, there are no facts, only interpretations.”

  I chuckle darkly. “Blah blah, Rudy. You wanted me to embrace Nihilism? Well, asshole, I did. To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in suffering. I’ve found my meaning. Have you?”

  The door slams as the last word leaves my mouth.

  I sag against the wall. “Take that, motherfucker.”

  44

  It was a lot easier to act tough when I wasn’t alone in what amounts to a sensory deprivation chamber. Besides the small vent in the ceiling pumping in cold air at intervals and a faint, mechanical hum from the fluorescent, there’s no sound, no movement, no life.

  Sitting with my knees drawn to my chest, I think about the thriller novels Paris used to devour like a kid with candy during her late teens. She was particularly fond of Stephen King. I wonder if King has ever incorporated a cell like this one into any of his novels. If not, he should. It’s already messing with my head.

  There might be a surveillance camera in the vent or light, watching my every move. Maybe I’m underground, a thousand tons of earth above me. Depending on how long I was out, I could be in another state. Another country. The rusted drain in the floor is an especially effective technique—combined with the lingering scent of bleach and the mop and bucket, it would be a miracle not to think about blood dripping from the dirty brown tails of the mop, DNA degraded and washed away with chemicals.

  Point to you, Rudy.

  With no watch or clock in the room, time is an elastic presence. Minutes or hours… seconds or weeks… Logically, I know I haven’t been here long. Maybe twenty-four hours. I’m thirsty and hungry, but not to distraction. Which means they couldn’t have taken me far. I might still be in Los Angeles.

  Was Rudy here minutes ago?

  Or hours?

  I resist temptation for as long as I can, but the harder I try to avoid thinking about the desk, the more my gaze and thoughts are drawn to it. To the single sheet of paper on its surface, the dark blur of compact handwriting. He must have been writing for a while before I came to—words fill the sheet almost entirely.

  I consider tearing the paper to shreds without reading. Or using it as toilet paper. Or leaving it to disintegrate right where it is. But in the end I’m only human, and eventually I stand and hobble-walk to the desk, favoring a cut on the bottom of my left foot—souvenir of running barefoot down the alley.

  I lower myself to the chair and wait for dizziness to pass. Is there something in the air? Did they give me more drugs? The thoughts come and go, but leave residue behind. Like a fungus, my paranoia will only increase in time, sucking food from every fearful thought I have. I might be able to postpone being consumed by it, but it will take me in the end. Psychological warfare is Rudy’s bread and butter.

  Shaking with bitterness and defeat, I finally focus on the letter.

  My dearest London,

  I have always believed in you. When others cautioned me against your disadvantageous upbringing, your less-than-stellar academic record, my faith never wavered. I knew I could help you reach your full potential. And I did. You were perfect—every step you took exactly as I anticipated.

  Alas, there were complications I did not foresee. I’ll admit, my feelings were hurt when you didn’t tell me about the story you were pursuing. Imagine my surprise when I received a phone call from an old friend telling me you were poking around where you didn’t belong. Perhaps the fault is mine. I pushed you too hard, too fast. Forgot to teach you that the road to power is paved with patience.

  You were destined for greatness. Cunning, cutthroat, sharp as a blade. You were supposed to rise with me. I would have taken you all the way to the White House. Your unavoidable demise is my greatest regret.

  Another choice will soon be upon you.

  Your mentor,

  R

  I read the letter a few more times, then crumple it in a fist and toss it to the ground. Limping back to the wall, I slide to the floor and hug my knees. It takes another few minutes, but piece by stubborn piece, my bravado disintegrates. Chunks of me fall, clashing and crashing, into that roaring void.

  And the truth finds me.

  Because of me, Dominic is dead. Like Paul is dead, like Felix and those young women, and like my heart and entire being and the life I didn’t realize was beautiful until too late.

  I should have…

  Maybe if…

  Too late.

  When the door opens, I don’t lift my head from the ground. Don’t open my eyes or move. Sometime in the last twenty-four hours—if that’s how long since Rudy was last here—I’ve made the only choice available to me. Even if it means suffering horribly, dying here, I won’t give him what he wants.

  There are shuffling noises, an angry shout, and a heavy body hits the ground several feet from me. The door slams closed. My heart hammers as I open my eyes. A man rests on his side, facing away from me. Dark hair. Dark clothes.

  He groans.

  Without thinking, I lunge for him. “Dominic,” I gasp, my hands hovering, wanting to grab and hold but afraid of hurting him. He makes a soft, small noise of pain and lifts his head, then rolls onto his back and blinks up at me.

  I’m wide-open. Vulnerable in my desperation. And when I see his face, my mind blanks.

  Empties.

  Burns to ash.

  CRACK goes my sanity.

  “London?” he whispers through bloody lips. “Oh my God, you’re alive. Alive.”

  He winces as he sits up, but ignores whatever pain he’s in to reach for me. Arms band tightly around me, drawing me into a space that’s as familiar as late nights studying in college. First dates at a pizza joint with sticky tables. Ferris Wheels and cheap champagne and marriage proposals. Walks in crisp morning air and Felix’s puppy breath.

  Paul finally realizes I’m stiff, unresponsive. He releases me only to frame my face with his hands. One of his eyes is swollen closed, the other tearful and locked on my face. Despite the bruises, the cracks and blood, he looks the same.

  My dead husband.

  45

  Everyone has that one off relative. Mine is a second cousin on my dad’s side. Edith Wilkes. Terminally awkward, colorblind, agoraphobic—we were all surprised when she showed up for Paul’s funeral. After, she waited in line with everyone else to offer her condolences. When it was her turn, Paris gripped my hand so tightly it hurt, preparing me for whatever craziness was about to come out of Edith’s mouth.

  Edith looked me in the eye and said gravely, “Until you’re broken, you don’t know what you’re made of.” Without waiting for a response, she walked away, her frizzy blond hair foaming in the wind. She didn’t come to the wake.

  Now, I have the vague wish I could have spoken longer with her. Because surely someone doesn’t say something like that to a widow without personal experience in breaking.

  I thought I was broken then.

  I knew nothing.

  “Say something, London. Are you okay? I thought you were dead. What did he do to you?”

  We’re sitting on opposite sides of the cell. He talks to me—I don’t respond. I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am now that nothing is as it seems. Either my mind is truly gone
, shattered, and I’m having a hallucination, or Paul’s death was staged and this ruse is the final play in Rudy’s twisted game.

  Perhaps if I’d never met Dominic… if he hadn’t blasted through all my darkness and brought me into the light… if I hadn’t learned there is salvation in surrender, forgiveness in regret, and a future in the present… Perhaps then I’d be desperate enough to believe the man in front of me.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” His tone is full of sorrow and confusion. “For two years, London, two years I’ve been in a windowless cell. Thinking you were dead. Losing my damned mind. Please, talk to me!”

  The agony in the last words breach my numbness. I focus on a spot directly above his head. “They identified you by your teeth.”

  He drags in a swift breath. “I know, or I guessed. I’m missing a few.”

  “I saw you in the car. You were in the driver’s seat when it exploded.”

  “I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t me. The last thing I remember is arguing with you about Felix. Then I woke up in a room just like this one with missing teeth and no idea how I got there.”

  Ventilation kicks on, stale air circulating between us. Slowly, I lower my gaze to his face. I don’t know how I could have mistaken him for Dominic. His hair is lighter, his frame leaner, his skin pale.

  “When did you find out Rudy was doing business with the Russian mob?” I ask the stranger. “Better yet, when did you sell your soul to the devil?”

  Because I’m looking, I see it. His tell. The skin beneath his eyes pinches. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t know about the Russians until Rudy told me a few months ago. He’s been trying to convince me to work for him, tells me about his business, the drugs and trafficking. He’s batshit crazy, London. I honestly don’t know why he hasn’t killed me yet.”

  My head thuds against the wall. Hindsight is a shifty bitch, changing her story one day to the next. Casting new shadows, removing old ones.

  “Just before Christmas, you started acting distant. Angrier.” I’m back to staring at the wall above his head. “I chalked it up to work stress coupled with the usual holiday stress. Or my distraction with the story I was working on. I also considered that you intuitively knew I was keeping something from you. I felt guilty about that. Ashamed. But it wasn’t any of those things, was it?”

  “London—”

  “You were so distraught when I told you about the story, that the women I interviewed were dead.” I look him in the eye. “Did you know it was Rudy who had them killed? Rudy and Ivan? Or did you kill them yourself, not knowing I was connected?”

  “Christ, London, you’re not making sense. This is crazy! I was upset because you’d been lying for months about what you were working on, and because you were shitting on my investigation! I was angry and scared for you, and lost my shit. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, but I’m here now. I need you to trust me. We have to figure out a way to get out of here!”

  “How?” I snap. “How in hell do you think we can do that?”

  His eyes soften, the hazel depths so achingly familiar and not. Like having déjà vu when meeting a person for the first time.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” he says softly, eagerly. He leans forward, almost vibrating with urgency. “He’s kept us both alive for a reason. We exploit it. Agree to whatever scheme he proposes, do whatever we have to do to get out of this fucking prison. Once we’re on the outside, we can escape. Go straight to the FBI. We’ll take him down. Together.”

  He has thought about it.

  It’s a perfectly sensible plan.

  If only…

  Blinking back tears, I smile tightly. “You’re forgetting one thing, Paul. I always beat you at poker. Always.”

  There’s a heavy beat of silence, broken by his sigh. “Damnit, London,” he murmurs, gaze shifting to the door just as it opens.

  Rudy walks in clapping.

  Clap.

  Clap.

  “Bravo, London,” he says, affectionate tone at odds with his grim expression. He glances at Paul. “You did your best, now go get cleaned up.”

  Paul lurches to his feet. “Rudy, please, maybe—”

  “No. She’s beyond our reach. And frankly, Paul, I’m disappointed that even knowing what she’s been doing the last six months, you’d still want her.”

  Paul frowns but says nothing. He pauses at the door and looks at me. For a moment, I see the young man I fell in love with. “I’m sorry, London. Truly.”

  He leaves.

  Again.

  Only this time, he doesn’t take any part of me with him.

  “Fuck you, Rudy. I told you once before, and I’ll tell you again. Just.Fucking.Kill.Me.”

  He sighs. “Once again, you’ve proved yourself my life’s greatest disappointment. But I won’t kill you. Call me sentimental, but I care too much for you. Besides, killing you now would rob me of an asset of incredible value. Do you know how much someone like you goes for on the open market? Millions.”

  Terror ices my veins. “What?” I rasp.

  Rudy smiles benignly. “Don’t worry. The average life expectancy of a sex slave is relatively brief. Go easily, and you have my word that your parents, sister, and adorable niece will live out the rest of their lives in peace.”

  The door closes before I’ve fully absorbed his words. When I do, I scream.

  Scream.

  And scream.

  46

  “Time to deliver your end of the bargain.”

  This is it. Rudy’s finally making good on his threat.

  I’m being sold.

  Either the weeks in the warehouse were a prolonged siege against my mind, or it’s taken him this long to find a buyer. I wonder what Paul thinks about what’s happening. If he cares that his wife will be sold to the highest bidder. Probably not, as I haven’t seen him for weeks, since the day he almost lit the warehouse on fire.

  “This is your fault.”

  He might be right. Somewhere along the way, I wasn’t the partner he wanted. Needed. We shared a bed, a life and—I thought—a stable love. But I was too self-absorbed, too obsessed with my own glory. I missed the signs of his devolving morality, his poisoned ambition. When did he decide that innocent lives didn’t matter?

  Paul said a lot of things that day, when he burst into the warehouse drunk and carrying a can of gasoline.

  “Do you know what it was like for me, leaving you? The choice I made was for us. For our future! Can’t you see that?”

  “There were no other options. I was being investigated. They were getting closer, London. I had to die, and your reaction had to be genuine. It was all planned. If only you’d trusted me!”

  “I was going to come for you. We had passports. New identities. Rudy set everything up—a new life was waiting for us. Why did you leave me?”

  “I saw the pictures, you know. Saw what that disgusting man did to you. What you LET HIM do to you. I can forgive you. You’re forgiven. Please, baby, come back to me.”

  When my silence became too much for him, he lost all pretense of the man I’d known. Ribbons of gasoline sprayed across the floor and walls. Women screamed, fleeing with nowhere to go. A lighter clicked open and closed in his hand. He’d called me every variation of the word whore, bloodshot eyes full of desperate madness and colossal grief.

  Paul had loved me. Maybe too much, past truth to blindness and deceit. Had I loved him the same? Blindly? It would explain why I never saw the monster under his skin. Did I ever know him, or did I love who I wanted him to be?

  I’ll never know the defining moment in which Rudy brought Paul’s monster to light, succeeding with him where he failed with me. Was it because of our childhoods? Mine, unconventional but full of love; his, rigid, with a blurred line between love and power?

  Is anything that simple?

  No.

  I’ll never know the catalysts that made Paul who he is—or rather, reve
aled who he’s always been. But I remember my own. The first was the day of Paul’s death. Not the bomb, but after, when I looked into the eyes of evil and said, “Fuck you.”

  I broke that day, down to the foundation, and healed wrongly. Became a malformed woman. Puppet-like, put together with frayed thread, and an empty cavity where my heart should have been. I remember the other moments, too. Even greater, brighter catalysts. Memory-beads like stars strung together on my timeline, almost identical, yet each singular in intensity.

  Dominic.

  He ripped my threads. Pulled me apart, opened me up. Broke me back down to my baseline. He destroyed that puppet-woman with his tender savagery, giving me the space to put myself back together again. Like re-breaking a malformed limb, my pain only healed with more pain.

  I know who I am.

  They can’t break me. Not Rudy. Not Paul. Not whoever buys me. No one.

  My pain belongs to Dominic.

  After weeks in the warehouse, being clean is an alien sensation. My skin itches from recent scrubbing, waxing, and oiling, the process administered by silent women with downcast eyes. They’ve been where I am, or haven’t but know what it means. Either way, I don’t ask for their stories. Let them tell their own.

  Over the next hours, visitors arrive at the small motel room, entering after being searched by two armed guards. All women, all silent and unsmiling. A stylist who conditions my hair, trims it, then blowdries and curls it. An older woman, gray-haired and severe, who rips my towel off and takes my measurements with a tape and cold hands. Another, younger, with a spark still in her eyes, who gives me a manicure and pedicure and tsks over the state of my cracked nails. She’s the only one who speaks, saying she’ll be back to do my makeup tomorrow. But she doesn’t look at me when she says it and leaves immediately after.