“Outside, directing Lori on the finer points of being Ciara Griffin. I couldn’t watch anymore. Besides, I wanted you to hear about this from me.”
Shane’s face is set in a stony pensiveness, his posture closed, arms folded over his chest. He flicks an icy glance at me. “Why? What’s the big deal?”
“No. None big deal. I mean, it was nothing.” I drag a hand through my hair. “If I seem nervous, it’s not because it affected me. I just didn’t know how you would react.”
“You think I’m a jealous man?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Insecure?”
“No,” I hurry to say. “Just sensitive.”
He takes a step closer, backing me up against the desk. “Do you want me to get mad?”
“No.”
His lips curve in a crafty smile. “Good. Because it’ll be a lot more fun to get even.”
11:15 a.m.
I stare at the Gallery of Me, both genuine and pretend, on Travis’s computer screen.
“Am I really that obnoxious?” I ask Lori over a box of doughnuts at my desk.
“Yes,” Franklin answers.
“But now you know where I get it from.” I glance at David’s closed office door. My dad is in there ingratiating himself with my boss. In just a few hours they’ve become good buds. David’s probably hungry for a substitute father since his own died so young. As for my dad, he wants to be everyone’s friend, just in case he needs to take advantage of them one day.
At least it keeps both of them out of my hair.
I click and drag the best picture of Lori/me into the box in Travis’s report. “We’ll print and bind this, then have it messengered to Jolene’s boss right at five o’clock.”
“What about Jolene?” Lori flips through the pages of the report. “Won’t she recognize us at the meeting tomorrow?”
I check my watch. “Travis had agreed to get the report to Jolene this afternoon. Of course, that was back when he could still do daylight. He’s probably called her by now to tell her that, A, there were some late developments that had to be added to the report, thus delaying its production, and, B, his car broke down and she needs to meet him at five at his office, where his curmudgeonly associate Leonard—played by Franklin—will be waiting with the original report.”
Franklin nods. “For some reason Ciara thought my personality would mesh well with Jolene’s.”
“Well enough to have a drink while waiting for Travis to walk back from the print shop with the addendum she wants. She sees the original report—the one that shows the real Elizabeth and the real Ciara—inserted in that envelope.”
Franklin holds up exhibit A.
“So what’s this addendum she’s waiting for from the printer?” Lori asks.
“Travis has promised her some serious dirt on yours truly.” I lean back in my chair. “See, the key to conning someone is to exploit their weakness. Jolene’s weakness is me, or more precisely, her hatred of me.”
“You ruined her bachelorette party,” Lori says. “But how long is she going to sit around waiting for Travis before she takes the original report?”
“As long as it takes her to pass out.” Franklin shakes a bottle of prescription sedatives. “It’ll help time go by faster for her.”
“How much time?” she asks me.
“Until after our meeting tomorrow.”
“You’re going to drug her for over twelve hours?”
“David will be there all night to monitor her vitals. Shane’ll stand watch so David can get some sleep before our big meeting.”
She holds up a photo of The Kiss. “Shane and David, together all night? I’d love to be a fly on that wall.”
I take the picture from her. “That issue’s been settled to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“So then what happens at sunrise?”
“Franklin will be there when she wakes up. Only he won’t be the same man.”
“Hi, I’m Frankie!” Franklin slips seamlessly into La Cage aux Folks mode. “I am so sorry about my brother Leonard’s party. My gracious, they get out of hand sometimes. You’re lucky no one called the cops. Let me fetch you some coffee. Do you need Sweet’n Low?”
I fill in the part of the groggy Jolene. “Whah? What happened? Why are you talking like that?”
“I guess you had a leeeetle too much butterscotch schnapps, judging by the photos.”
I cross to Franklin’s desk. “What photos?”
He hands me the digital camera. I pretend to flip through the pictures, then gasp. “Oh. My God. Is that me? Who’s that guy?”
“I don’t know, but my goodness, he has a nice butt. Did he mention my name at all?”
“You drugged me!” I mime hurling the camera against the wall. “That’s what I think of your stupid tricks!”
“Hey! Do you know how much that camera cost?”
“Not as much as a lawsuit will cost you.”
Franklin flips his hand. “You can work that out with Travis when he gets back. Since he already downloaded the pictures, I imagine there’ll be some negotiation.” He looks up through his lashes. “Unless you have somewhere you have to be.”
As Jolene, I look at my watch. “My meeting! Just give me the report.”
“You sure you don’t want coffee? I found this to-die-for Costa Rican blend.”
“Leonard, cut the evil twin bullshit and give me the fucking report!”
Franklin hands me a different envelope—identical to the one containing the original report—and waggles his shoulders in indignation. “Aren’t you the fussy little queen bitch this morning?”
“And ... scene.” I bow, then speak to Lori in my own voice. “Without opening the sealed envelope to look at the report, which is mostly blank, she runs to her car and drives away like a maniac. But the night before, Noah siphoned off most of the fuel, and Jim tampered with the fuel gauge serving unit so that her needle stays on half a tank. When she runs out of gas, somewhere on a country road between here and the next town, she tries to call the office, but alas, her cell phone battery is dead, due to the fact that it’s been used all night to play Tetris and check the local weather in Hong Kong. Oddly enough, her phone’s car adapter has vanished.”
“Back up a second,” Lori says. “Why does Franklin need to act like he’s his own twin?”
“Just to disorient her, then piss her off. The more emotional she is, the faster she’ll get out of there and the less likely she’ll look at the blank report.”
Lori nods. “So she misses the meeting.”
“She misses the meeting and probably gets fired. Travis and his detective agency have packed up and disappeared that morning, so she has no legal recourse. Since he has naked photos of her, she’ll drop the whole thing to protect her new marriage.”
“Wow.” Lori sets down her half-eaten doughnut. “You’re really going to screw her over, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” No point in showing remorse I don’t feel. “But it’s screwery in self-defense. She can’t wait to fire us all after the takeover.”
Lori looks nauseated. “And that makes it okay?”
“Yes, it does.” I cross the office and pull my chair to sit next to her. “I’ve done a lot of bad shit in my life. This summer, for the first time, I’ve done really good shit. These vampires are finally questioning the so-called fact that their future is nothing but an endless fade. They’re starting to live in the Now. I won’t let anyone take that away from them. And no one is going to take away the one good deed of my life.” I pick up another doughnut. “Especially not some horse-faced twat like Jolene.”
My phone rings. It’s Travis, who reveals that he phoned my nemesis about the report’s delay. Jolene was predictably pissed but heartened when she heard that the reason for said delay was information that could hurt me.
I hang up and turn to Lori. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to be a part of this, but I need to know now. Are you in?”
She stares at the pictur
e of her/me in Travis’s report, then swallows hard. “I’m in.” She sets the report aside. “So who’s the ‘nice butt’ guy in Jolene’s naked pictures?”
Franklin snickers. “Let’s just say Shane will have his photographic revenge tonight.”
12:00 p.m.
David, Lori, and I grab a table at the local diner and go over the script, with my dad’s semi-unwelcome assistance. David and I are the two major players, with Lori supporting us as a shill, there to help create our reality—or our “truth,” as she calls it. She seems to relish the opportunity to put one over on The Man.
The Man, in this case, consists of Alfred Bombeck and Sherilyn Murphy, the Skywave executives overseeing the WVMP takeover. Travis’s research gives me a few personal details I can use: Murphy has “adopted” a wolf pack in Yellowstone National Park, and Bombeck thinks the New York Yankees are evil incarnate.
Elizabeth’s notes and e-mails reveal Murphy and Bombeck as a good-cop/bad-cop team. One of them (Bombeck) lays on the fear tactics, trying to railroad the young station owner into parting with her holding. Meanwhile, Murphy plays on Elizabeth’s need for economic security and the knowledge that the station will be able to grow and blossom in the best possible hands.
They’re con artists even if they don’t know it. But I think they know it.
1:30 p.m.
I wait in line alone at Motor Vehicles, ready to commit my first identity theft. I think about the credit card commercials that portray such bandits as sadistic hedonists, cackling over the booty they’ve bought with their victims’ good names. I tell myself I’m not like them. I tell myself this theft serves a noble purpose. I tell myself there’s no other way.
I convince myself. It’s not hard.
“Next?”
I approach the counter and grimace at the ennui-ridden clerk. “I lost my driver’s license.”
“Was it stolen?” she asks. Her tone suggests she doesn’t care.
I sigh and conjure a blush. “No, I was bungee jumping yesterday, out in Washington County? You know, where that big gorge is?” The clerk blinks. “Anyway, my license was in my shirt pocket. It never bounced back up with me. It’s probably halfway to the Chesapeake Bay by now, if a trout hasn’t eaten it.”
She’s already torn off a number. She pushes it and a blank form across the counter at me. I thank her, glumly, and move to the waiting area. An electronic marquee announces the latest news and offers the occasional music trivia, the inanity of which would make the DJs snarf their blood cocktails.
My number dings. This clerk, an athletic-looking brunette in her thirties, appears to have taken her happy pills today.
“Good morning! What can I do for you?”
I tell her my sad bungee story, and she relates her own extreme sports experiences while typing in the information from Elizabeth’s birth certificate and Social Security card.
“I just can’t get enough of that adrenaline rush,” she coos. “Of course, you know what I mean.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and every sense is amplified times ten. “Absolutely.”
When requested, I hand her several more proofs of residence than she needs, plus a twenty-dollar bill for the fee.
“Stand up against this wall and smile, okey-doke?” She hums along with the Blue Oyster Cult tune piped in over the speakers. “Ready? Don’t say ‘cheese,’ say, ‘Tomorrow’s Friday!’“
Five minutes later, I pick up Elizabeth’s new driver’s license, featuring a picture of me looking as if I just swallowed a turkey bone.
I’m in the game again. I give the clerk a wave and a broad smile. “Tomorrow’s Friday!”
2:15 p.m.
I use Elizabeth’s debit card to buy a decent pair of shoes to go with her suit. For the meeting, of course.
5:45 p.m.
The Control robo-dude drives me and my dad back to the safe house.
5:52 p.m.
Franklin text-messages me:
BOTTOMS UP
28
Money For Nothing
August 3
5:54 a.m.
I wake to the sounds of Jim signing off with the Stones’ “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll.” The song gives me the soul-deep inspiration I need to jump out of bed and begin the Day of Triumph. In the shower I wail it three times over, full volume.
I put on Elizabeth’s ice-blue suit, then bop down to the kitchen, where my dad sits with a cup of coffee and yesterday’s newspaper, still in his robe and slippers.
“Wish me luck?”
“You don’t need it.” He looks at me over his reading glasses. “I wish I could be there.”
I breeze past him to the refrigerator. “What are your plans for the day?”
“Gideon issues.”
“I hope they hurry up and neutralize that motherf— uh, that guy soon. This place is nice, but I want to go home.” I pull out the orange juice and the package of English muffins. “Ooh, honey wheat. My favorite.”
“It’ll all be over before you know it.”
“Then what? Will you stick around, or will the Control move you somewhere else?”
“Hard to say. Ciara, I’ve been meaning to ask, what church do you go to now?”
I put the muffin in the toaster and push down the lever, harder than I have to. “I don’t go to church.”
“So you have a purely private relationship with Our Lord?”
I snort. “Come on, you don’t really believe all that shit, do you?”
“Hey! What did I say about your language?”
“Goddamn it, Dad, your preaching days are over. Drop the act.”
“It’s not an act.”
“Have you forgotten? All those years, you and Mom weren’t really healing people. You were fooling them.”
“Their faith was real,” he says, “and that’s what healed them.”
“But yours wasn’t.”
“Maybe not at first.” His voice lowers and sobers. “But if you play a role long enough, eventually you become it.”
“In other words, fake it till you make it? I’ll try that. One day I’ll be a rich vampire owning a radio station. Maybe I’ll even get taller.” I pop the English muffin from the toaster, even though it’s not done. I just want to get out of here.
“Ciara, I know you’re bitter over the lies you think your mother and I told—”
“That I think you told?”
“—but don’t take it out on God.”
“Can we talk about this later? I need to keep my head in the game.”
“Sure, honey.” He sits back in his chair, folds his paper, and sets it aside. “I want you to know, whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
I turn toward the counter and fumble with the butter dish. My vision’s gone cloudy, and my knife misses the muffin and spreads butter on my thumb. “Tell me again at the end of the day, okay? Assuming you’re not bailing me out of jail.”
I blink back the wetness—for the sake of my mascara, of course—and finish buttering the English muffin. Then I set it in front of him on the table.
“Here, you’re too skinny.” I bend down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”
He grabs my hand as I move away. His face is strangely solemn. “Good luck, Angel.”
“Thought you said I didn’t need it.” I wave at him on my way to the garage, where my Control chauffeur awaits. Something makes me want to look over my shoulder at my father one more time, like a kid on her first day at kindergarten.
But I keep moving, straight ahead, a woman on a mission.
8:25 a.m.
Skywave’s regional headquarters looms like a glass Godzilla over the skyline of its Virginia suburb. As I walk toward it, followed by my entourage—and the Control goon at a discreet distance—I resist the urge to gawk at its gleaming facade like a tourist at the Empire State Building. I’m supposed to be here, after all, and I have to act the part.
My name is Elizabeth Vasser. I was born in Evanston, Illinois, on July
19, 1970. I graduated magna cum laude from the University of Chicago in 1992 with degrees in psychology and criminology. I play racquetball, poorly, and once won a Skee-Ball contest on the boardwalk of Wildwood, New Jersey. Pet peeves: men who curse in public and people who use the word “schizophrenic” to mean “of two minds.”
My name is Elizabeth Vasser.
8:30 a.m.
“Good morning, Ms. Vasser. Welcome to Skywave.” The young blond assistant holds out his hand in greeting as he strides across the lobby’s marble floor.
“Thank you so much.” I shake his hand with a warm, dry palm. “Let me introduce my staff. This is David Fetter, my general manager, and Ciara Griffin, our marketing director.”
His regard lingers on the latter for an extra moment before turning back to me. “I’m Jonathan, Sherilyn Murphy’s assistant. You can call me Jon,” he adds in Lori’s direction. “Ms. Murphy asked me to bring you up to the conference room.”
He leads us down a hallway lined with gold and platinum records on the wall. I catch Lori checking out Jonathan’s butt and give her a warning glare. It’s not as if they can go out, considering he thinks she’s me.
The brass-railed elevator displays a television screen running a music video by a new country/western band. On the top floor, we enter a lavishly decorated conference room, the walls of which are filled with autographed photos of recording artists.
Two executives await us, flanked by what looks like stacks of contracts. Between them sits a single windowed envelope.
A sharp-dressed brunette in her late thirties stands to greet us. “Good morning, I’m Sherilyn Murphy. We’ve spoken on the phone many times.” She points to my lapel. “Hey, great pin.”
I finger the silver brooch. “Thanks, I just love wolves.”
“Me, too. There’s something magical about them, don’t you think?” She gushes as if wolves are a rock star she would sleep with if she could.
A gruff, balding man in his fifties joins us. “Alfred Bombeck. Glad you could be on time.”
Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires Page 93
