Firestorm

by David Klass

  “You can clean up at my apartment. We’ll wash your clothes. Something tells me you clean up nice.”

  “What will your parents think if you bring a stray like me home?”

  Reilly shrugs. Gives her a chance to flip her hair. Something going on with her parents that’s not so great. “They’re away in Paris,” she says, as if everybody’s parents disappear to Paris at regular intervals. “Business trip for my dad. Shopping opportunity for my mom. So it’s just me in our big old apartment. And I’m lonely.” She stands. “Do you want to come or not, Jack? I rarely ask twice and I never ask three times.”

  I stand up also. Sorry, P.J. But this is my only friend in New York. And I do need a hot shower.

  5

  Central Park West. Exclusive-looking buildings with doormen out front. Joggers in hundred-dollar sneakers. Rollerbladers in designer sunglasses. Kids in double strollers being pushed by nannies. The park right outside, literally at your doorstep. Doesn’t look cheap. But very safe and comfortable.

  “This is my building,” Reilly says. “Hi, Charles.”

  Doorman nods politely. “Good afternoon.” His eyes frisk me and withdraw. He holds door open.

  Dark lobby. Plush rug that seems to go on forever. Oil paintings on wall. Landscapes and seascapes. Is this an apartment building or a museum? We get on elevator. Fifteen floor buttons and a “P” at the top. Reilly hits “P.” “I know that’s not for parking,” I say. “Unless it’s for helicopters.”

  “Penthouse,” Reilly informs me. “It’s no big deal.”

  “So say you. But for a rube from the provinces …”

  “You may be from the provinces, but you’re no rube,” she says. She reaches out and touches my cheek. Brushes hair from my forehead. “You have a nice face,” she says. “I have good instincts about people. But you’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  “Not since the last time you asked.”

  “‘Cause if you are,” she says, “be warned. I have a black belt in karate. A dog. And this is a high-security building.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell her.

  Elevator stops. One door on “P” landing. They have this whole floor to themselves!

  We stand on Welcome mat as Reilly fumbles for key.

  Something tells me the penthouse in this building doesn’t come cheap. “What does your dad do?”

  “Do you know what stock options are?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Neither do I,” she admits. “But he does. Or at least his clients think he does.” She grins. Secret out. Dad’s loaded. She opens the door. Leads the way in.

  Reilly, I’m sure you don’t need my advice about being safe in Manhattan, but even if you have great instincts about people, not to mention a black belt in karate, you probably shouldn’t invite strange men back here alone when your parents are gone.

  “I trust you,” she says, leading me down a long entry hall. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

  Did you just read my mind, Reilly? “Did you just read my mind?” I ask.

  She giggles. “Was that what you were thinking? Yeah, I know I might look foolish. But I grew up in this city and I’m pretty savvy about people. You inspire confidence, Jack. Boys who read David Copperfield in one weekend are usually safe. Voilà!”

  Good God, Reilly. Whatever your dad is doing for his clients, it must be working. We leave the entry hall and emerge into the living room, which is the size of a basketball court and features floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Manhattan flows into the room through those windows. Central Park with its emerald lawns and blue lakes. Uptown to Harlem. The Empire State Building points the way downtown. The buildings of the East Side rise up across the park, and the East River glistens beyond them.

  “Wow,” I say. “Talk about a million-dollar view.”

  “After a while,” Rye replies, “you stop noticing it. That’s Strawberry Fields right down there. Memorial to John Lennon. I love his music. He was shot right outside the Dakota over there. Check out the jogging track around the Reservoir. It’s the prettiest place to run in the whole world at dusk when the lights of the city are just turning on. Do you want something to eat?”

  A dog barks somewhere. Not a playful, happy yelp. More of a deep and angry growl. Let’s hope Rover’s chained up. I might be a country boy, but I never liked dogs. Never had one. Never wanted one. More trouble than they’re worth. And the one growling in the recesses of Reilly’s apartment sounds particularly unpleasant. “Maybe later. But a shower sounds good.”

  Minutes later I’m washing away dirt and stress. Hot needle spray. Expensive soaps and shampoos. Side view of the park through window. What am I doing here? Hiding? Nice place to bide time. But what’s my next move? Am I endangering Reilly by hanging out with her? As I try to unmark myself, do I have the right to mark strangers with my presence?

  Don’t think too much. You’ve been through a lot. You can’t control everything, but you seem to be doing pretty well at the moment.

  Relax. Enjoy it, Jack. You’ve earned it.

  Shower over. My clothes are in Reilly’s washing machine. I get into the bathrobe she has provided. Blue silk. Body on full tingle after needle shower. Silk on tingling skin feels pretty damn good.

  I wander through apartment. “Reilly? Where art thou?”

  “I art in here. The bedroom.”

  The bedroom, huh?

  Jazz playing. Reilly’s room. View of park. Small private terrace. Teddy bears on big four-poster bed. “You do clean up nice,” Reilly says. “You even smell better.”

  “Thanks, I guess. What kind of a party are we going to? I hope you’ll say a dinner party.”

  She laughs. “Sorry, Meredith never has any food. But I’m sure I can dig up something for you here. Would you like a back rub, Jack?” She asks as if it’s the most innocent thing in the world.

  I remember P.J. “I don’t really think …”

  “I give good back rubs. I took a class at the Reebok Club. That’s the gym my parents belong to. Come on, lie down.”

  A pretty girl offering a skilled back rub. One of those things in life that’s hard to resist. I lie down. Reilly climbs onto bed. Kneels next to me. Small, warm hands on my back through the silk. Playful, surprisingly strong fingers. “Try to relax, Jack. Wow, do you have muscles. You must work out all the time.”

  “When I’m not reading Dickens.”

  “What sport do you play?”

  “A little football now and then.”

  “I can’t dig in because of your muscles. This robe is the problem. Let’s lose it …”

  I stop her hands. “I’m not wearing anything under it.”

  “Modest, aren’t we? It’s not like I’ve never seen a boy’s back before. Let’s get comfortable, Jack.” She reaches back and pulls her own shirt off. Now she’s just wearing a bra.

  I catch my breath. Wow. This is happening too fast, but I can’t find the brake pedal.

  She divests me of my silk robe. Look that up, my friend, but not right now. Things are a little too steamy now for dictionary breaks. Reilly’s hands slide up my back. She spreads oil on her palms. Circles it around my shoulder blades. She’s kneeling over me now. Her blond tresses sweep up and down my spine. The jazz is throbbing. “Let it go,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your tension. Just try to relax. Listen to the music. Arms stretched out in front.”

  I stretch out my arms.

  “Good. Now close your eyes and relax.”

  I shut my eyes. It’s been a crazy, tragic, mind-blowing twelve hours. I needed human contact. Maybe not this close, but what the hell?

  “Much better,” Reilly says approvingly. “Eyes closed? Good boy. I’ll tell you a secret. When you were sleeping in the playground I walked by and looked at you up close. You were so handsome. And you looked so innocent when you were sleeping. That’s why I trusted you.”

  She’s moving around on the bed.

&nbs
p; Off the bed. Turning up jazz. My eyes are shut. I’m listening to the music. Trying not to think too much.

  You deserve this, I’m telling myself.

  “Stretch out your arms a little,” Reilly says. “This is a special technique for getting your shoulders to relax.” She’s at the head of the bed, pulling my wrists. All of a sudden I feel metal. Click.

  My eyes pop open. I try to yank hands away. She’s handcuffed my wrists around a bedpost.

  “Reilly, what are you doing?”

  She makes a guttural sound in her throat. Not what you would expect from a refined Drearly girl on Central Park West. Growl of brutal triumph. Like a hunter after bagging a prime catch.

  I twist head around to look at her.

  Not Reilly anymore. Some kind of transformation taking place. Skin growing greenish. Eyes narrowing. Canines enlarging.

  I hear myself pleading. “Who are you? I haven’t done any harm to you. Please let me go.”

  She considers this as canines gleam. Tongue licks four inches out of mouth. Reilly-thing approaches. Voice a sharp hiss. “Just a worthless Gorm, they said. Go hunt alone. Now they’ll see who’s worthless. The Prince himself, and nobody helped her. Here he is. All trussed and blood-fat and ready for them.”

  She leans over bed. Bites my calf. Deep, slicing pain. I scream. Never been chewed before. Try very hard to yank hands out of cuffs. Some give, but not enough. Can’t break bedpost. I’m strong but steel post is stronger.

  She watches, amused. “You’re not going anywhere. Just wanted my taste of royal blood. Sweet. Shall I give you a last chance? Tell me right now. Where is it?”

  I look back at her. Force myself to focus. “Last chance” sounds ominous. I manage to ask, “What? Where is what?”

  She reaches down. Nails curled like talons. Rake my back. I scream again. Jazz drowns it out. “You might as well tell me,” she hisses. “Your life is over. The only question left is the amount of pain before darkness. I can turn you over to them and take my fee and go my way. But I want more, and what’s good for me is good for you. So I’m asking you for the second time. Where is it?”

  I look back into yellow eyes. Heartless. Soulless. Think, Jack. Time running out. “I want to cooperate. But I can’t possibly tell you where it is if I don’t know what it is. I swear to you I don’t have a clue what’s going on. So if you’ll just explain to me …”

  I stop talking. What I’m selling, Reilly isn’t buying. I try the cuffs again. Can almost pull my hands free. Almost doesn’t count.

  Or does it? I just need lubrication. Only one possibility.

  My blood. Lots of it on my back. On my calf. No help. I grind my watch’s dark metal wristband into the skin of my right wrist. Rough edges of metal band cut smooth skin. It hurts. I can’t let her see what I’m doing. “Go to hell,” I say. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Hell is coming to you,” she assures me. Leans close. Not the best breath I’ve ever smelled. “Do you know what they’ll do to find out what they want? Neural flay. Even I wouldn’t do it. But I’ve seen it. People scream like they’re being eaten alive. Goes on for hours. You’ll tell them everything. Tell me first. I’ll kill you now. Tell them you died trying to escape. Save you hours and hours of torture. This is your one chance. Where is it? Where is Firestorm?”

  Blood on my wrists. I slide my right hand slowly through cuff. Free. “Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

  She comes closer. Eager hiss. “Tell me. I promise I’ll kill you quickly.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” I say, and grab her. Sit up fast. Hit her with right hook that knocks her spinning back into wall. I never hit a girl before. Then again, this isn’t exactly Little Miss Manners.

  She bounces off wall. Doesn’t go down. Bares canines. Spins in with kick. Some kind of kung fu move. Catches me on chest. Knocks me off bed.

  No time to recuperate. She’s on me. Fast slaps with clawed hands. Lightning kicks to my stomach and groin. She’s too quick for me. Too skillful. Can’t take much more.

  Use your assets, Jack. Size. Strength. I grab her around waist and power her back toward bed in football tackle mode. Pull blanket over her head so that she can’t see. She’s flailing wildly. I wrap her up in blankets and sheets. Tie it tight with bathrobe belt and electrical cord.

  Carry her in cocoon of sheet and blankets to walk-in closet. Dump her in. Close door. Drag heavy bureau in front of it. Then bed in front of bureau. Desk in front of bed. Five-hundred-pound barricade. Even if she unwraps herself she’ll never push her way out.

  I switch off jazz. Dab my left wrist with blood and slide cuffs off so that they fall to floor. Stand there. Heart pumping. Chest heaving. Looking at myself naked in bedroom mirror. I’m a bloody mess.

  First instinct is to get my clothes and run. Before Reilly finds a way out of the closet. Or before her dad comes home. If she has a dad. If she ever had a dad. If she is a she. I don’t know what I’m up against, but I know it defies easy categorization.

  I wash my cuts and bandage them. Find my clothes. She did not put them in washer. She dumped them on kitchen floor. No need to clean them. She knew I wouldn’t be needing them.

  I put them back on. Feels nice to be dressed again. Should I run? No. Because she was of their world. Whoever they are. So there may be some clue here about what is really going on.

  I won’t linger too long. Every second in this penthouse is probably dangerous. But I have to look. My need for information outweighs my urgent desire to get the hell out of here.

  6

  I search apartment, room to room. Draw blank. No personal stuff. Mostly fakes. Kind of like a movie set.

  A trap. This was a trap set to lure you in. She was waiting near the river in case you happened along. A spider spinning a web for a very predictable fly. You blundered right into it. Oh, a pretty girl and she likes me, so I’ll go home with her. So trusting and foolish. You won’t survive very long if you don’t get a lot smarter fast, Jack.

  Here’s the bad news. Whoever they are, whatever’s going on, the people seeking you can predict your behavior. They have unlimited resources. They’re creative. They know your world right down to stock options and Reebok Clubs, even though you don’t know where the hell they’re coming from.

  They can play you, turn you inside out. She spun you completely around by asking if you were a serial killer. She pretended to be wary of you to keep you from being suspicious of her. Smart. You’re outmatched, Jack.

  But when she had you safely in her web, she presumably spoke the truth. And the truth sounded pretty weird.

  What was all that stuff about you being a prince? Nobody ever called you royal, except for a second-grade teacher who once said you were a royal pain in the butt.

  But you are the Prince! The beacon of hope!

  Who said that? No one. Just a random weird thought that popped into my head. Finish the search, Jack, and get out fast.

  Nothing in the whole apartment that provides the slightest clue to who Reilly is. Master bedroom furnished, but no sheet under bedcover. No one ever slept here. Empty photo albums on shelves. Bare refrigerator, except for four or five containers of purple Jell-O. Apparently, when she’s not sucking blood, Reilly is diet-conscious. No clothes in dressers. All props and illusion. A rigged trap. Intricately planned. Perfectly constructed. Wow. Someone went to a lot of trouble to catch me.

  I am ready to give up and flee. Pass a closed door. Growling inside. Uh-oh, here’s Rover. Time to get out.

  No, fool. Let me go. We can flee together.

  Who said that?

  Me.

  Who?

  Me!

  I look at the closed door.

  Bingo.

  Wait a minute. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t utter a single word. I just looked at the door.

  Right. But you thought about looking. I don’t have time to explain. Open the door. The Gorm told them about you. They’re coming. If they find us here, it’ll be a neural flay for both of us
. And I don’t know about you, but I like my neurons unflayed.

  Good point, I think. Time to flee. But why do I need to take a chance with you, whoever you are?

  Because you have questions and I have answers, comes the response, loud and clear. Now open the door and let me out. Every second is precious.

  I hesitate for a second more and then unlock door and crack it open very gently. Peer inside.

  Small bedroom. Probably a maid’s room. Now being used as an animal prison. Birds chatter from coops. Rodents squeal from cages. Mice. Rats. Hamsters.

  One big shape. When I say big, I mean big. Dog or bear? Dog. Chained to radiator.

  Nearly three feet tall. Dark fur. Big jowls. Droopy ears. Sasquatch-size paws. Not a great Dane. Not a Newfoundland. I’m no expert on dog breeds, but I’ve never seen this one before.

  I don’t like dogs in general. I especially don’t like large dogs. And I particularly don’t like the look of this monstrous shaggy canine. I start to close door.

  Wait. You can’t leave me here.

  Why not?

  Because you’re too incompetent to survive on your own. She caught you in a flash. They’ll catch you again.

  She caught you, too, fur ball, I think back to him. One of us is free right now and one of us is chained to a radiator, so watch who you call incompetent.

  True. But I know things you don’t. Important things. Useful things.

  Like?

  I can’t tell you.

  You’d better tell me, or it’s the neural flay.

  I can’t. You won’t leave me here. You have a good heart.

  I close door. Start to walk away.

  I know who your father is.

  I know who he is, too. Or was. My father is dead. They killed him when they came for me. Goodbye, Rover.

  No, your real father. I met him. Greatest honor of my life. I know why you’re here. And why they’re chasing you.

  I stop walking. Turn around. Retrace steps quickly. Open door. Birds chatter. Rodents squeal. Only the dog is quiet. Big jowls. Enormous teeth. Glittering eyes. Now get me out of here.