by Stella Hart
But now she’d stopped trying to talk to me entirely. Perhaps I shouldn’t have rejected her after our bath the other night when she practically begged me to stay and talk, but I had a very early consult the next morning, and I couldn’t stay behind and give her anything else. I had a hunch she wanted to ask me questions I wasn’t ready to answer yet, anyway.
Since then, she’d withdrawn completely, disappeared into a shell she thought she could hide from me. There were no more attempts to ask questions, no more attempts to say anything other than generic small talk. How was your day, sir? The greenhouse is going well, sir. Should we cook dinner together, sir?
Part of me had initially wanted this. After all, I wanted her to be willing to submit. But I also wanted her to be willing to be mine. Needed to know she’d never try to leave again. And right now, I couldn’t trust that. I knew she still didn’t entirely trust me, and it still hadn’t completely sunk in to her pretty head that she needed to be here. Even though she was always polite and demure and smiling around me, I had a feeling she was only pretending, just for now. Enjoying the comforts she’d been without for so long, but secretly seething underneath, missing her freedom and making plans to gain it back eventually. She didn’t seem to understand that it simply couldn’t and wouldn’t happen. She didn’t seem to understand how much her life and condition were improving by being here.
Sometimes in those first few weeks, I would go down to her cell in the middle of the night and watch her. She would toss and turn, clearly in the throes of awful nightmares that she rarely remembered when she woke up. But she didn’t get them now. I went and watched her for a while every night after she went to sleep now that she’d given up some of her control and handed me the reins. She slept peacefully, undisturbed by twitches and moans. Her nerve pain condition was improving dramatically as well.
But she was still stubborn. There were parts of her she refused to give up, certain aspects of control she wanted to keep.
I saw her trying to connect to the internet on the smart TV in her room the other day when I went in there to see what she was doing. I saw her sneakily trying all the doors in the house as she wandered around, seeing which ones were locked and which weren’t, then trying to pick the locks of the ones that weren’t accessible before realizing the locks were electronic. I saw her fiddling with the drawers in the kitchen, trying to see if she could disable the latches and get into the drawers which contained sharp cutlery.
She was still looking for some way out, even though she’d chosen to stay.
I squinted at the feed, curious as to what she was reading right now. I hadn’t thought to look before. It was a book about criminal psychology. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt for taking her away from her studies and coveted internship—she obviously loved it despite all the hard work it entailed—but then I reminded myself that it was necessary.
For the greater good, as they say.
I stroked my jaw as I kept an eye on her. There was only one way to make her truly want to stay here, and that was to make her fall in love with me. I’d been obsessed with the idea for so long now, and I knew it was insane, but I couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let her go. I needed her to love me. Needed her to want to be here.
That couldn’t happen if she retreated from me into her cozy little mental shell. I needed her to come out of there, but right now, I wasn’t sure what I could do to make it happen.
With a sigh, I checked my watch. Time for me to go. I locked my office door, then strode out into the sitting room. “I have to go out for a while,” I announced to Celeste.
She looked up at me with a faint smile. “Enjoy your day, sir,” she murmured.
I leaned down and left a bruising kiss on her lips; a promise for later. Then I said goodbye and headed outside. Today, I’d be driving my sedan and leaving the SUV behind. I needed the small, closed off trunk in the former, because this evening, I’d have a little delivery for Celeste. A gift which might make her remember some more details about the Circle. Might even get her talking again, get her back on my side.
Putting some music on, I settled myself in for the long drive ahead. Accounting for traffic, it would be over an hour’s drive to get from my property all the way through the city and up to Wexford, where George Baldwin and his wife lived.
Baldwin was one of seven Chief Justices of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, and he was the same man Celeste had recognized in a photo a couple of weeks ago. In my time around her and work, I’d staked out Baldwin’s life, and I knew his movements and general weekly routine by now, along with that of his wife. His house was in a hilly, tree-covered area, so it wouldn’t be too hard to get him. Still, he had quite a few neighbors, so I had to be careful.
Today was my lucky day, though. In my pursuit of him, I’d come across an ad he had placed online, looking to privately sell a Porsche convertible which was worth more than most people’s mortgages. I could only assume it was a vehicle he purchased in the throes of a midlife crisis, and his wife had finally convinced him to get rid of it.
That made my life so much fucking easier.
When I arrived in the area, I parked my car in a secluded spot just off a narrow hilly road about a mile and a half from Baldwin’s residence. The area was thick with trees, and it seemed unlikely many people drove up this way, even during the middle of the day.
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out my kit. I attached the dark blond wig I used to disguise myself onto my real hair, and then I carefully stuck green contacts over my blue irises. The shade was realistic enough to seem normal and go with my skin tone, same as the wig, but it was enough to make me look like a fairly different person. It was amazing what a change in color could achieve.
I put a few more things in my pockets, then stepped off the shoulder of the road and headed down to the Baldwin’s road. I was right on time. Jill Baldwin was heading out for her weekly Saturday nail appointment before brunch with her friends, leaving George to his own devices for the next few hours.
I slipped my burner phone out of my pocket and dialed the number George had stupidly put online. He picked up almost immediately.
“Yes?” Gruff old prick.
I affected a casual voice. “Hey, man, I was just calling about an ad I saw online for a Porsche 911?”
His tone softened. “Oh, right. Are you interested?”
“Very. I’d love to come and check it out. Where are you located?”
“Wexford.”
“What a coincidence. I’m practically just around the corner.”
“Well, my wife just left for a while, so you’re welcome to come and have a look if you’re not busy.”
“Yeah, I’m free. That would be great.”
He rattled off his address—such an idiotic thing to do, although it wasn’t like I didn’t already know exactly where it was—and then ended the call. I waited the requisite fifteen minutes to make it seem as if I wasn’t already right next to the house, and then I stepped up to the right side of the enormous Baldwin house, where their triple garage was located.
George was waiting for me. He was wearing blue jeans, black shoes and a black jacket, all very casual looking, but even a cursory glance at the quality of the fabric made it clear they were very expensive clothes. “You’re the one looking for the car?”
I nodded and extended a friendly hand. “Yup, that’s me. I’m Peter Blake.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m George.” He pulled out a pair of keys and clicked something on them, turning around as one of the garage doors went up. “The old girl is in here.”
“I’m excited to see her.” I cocked my head to the side. “You know, you look very familiar… oh, wait. You’re George Baldwin, aren’t you?”
The old man nodded, puffing up his shoulders with pride. “I am.”
“Forgive me for sounding like a total brown-noser, but you’re excellent at your job, sir. I’ve actually followed your career for quite some time.”
�
�Thank you.” George gave me a bright white smile. Got him. Rich, arrogant, condescending old fuckwits like him loved it when people called them ‘sir’. It was like crack to them; served as social proof of their superior status amongst all the lowly peasants of the world. Or so they thought. I smiled to myself for a second, wondering if Celeste thought the same of me, although she surely knew I preferred the title in a vastly different context.
A swanky silver convertible came into view in the garage a moment later. I let out a low whistle. “Can’t believe you want to give this up.”
He chuckled. “Ah, I have to. I’m too old to drive this thing around. I bought it a few years ago, but my wife never stopped teasing me, and she’s right. I look like an insecure old fool in the thing. It’s too fast for me, anyway.”
Bingo.
“Well, your loss is my gain, sir. I’m very interested.” I affected a curious frown to disguise the fact that all I was really interested in was seeing the bloody insides of his chest. “Can you tell me more about the features?”
“Of course, son.” He rattled off a bunch of specs about the interior design and comfort features, and I nodded along and pressed my lips together at the right times, feigning enough interest to be convincing, but not so much that I seemed disingenuous.
“Well, it all sounds great, but.…” I let a reluctant note creep into my voice. “I guess I’d really have to see for myself, you know?”
George nodded. “By all means, take it for a test drive around the block. I’ll wait here.”
I held up my palms, as if I hadn’t insinuated anything of the sort. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly take it out without you. We only just met. For all you know, I’m some sort of international auto thief, or a crazed serial killer intent on running down pedestrians in your car.”
George chuckled. “I like to think in all my years as a judge, I can read people quite well. You seem trustworthy enough.” He winked. “Believe me, I’d know if I was talking to a serial killer.”
Would you? Fucking moron. This guy was actually elected to the goddamned Supreme Court of our state. Christ.
I grinned. “Fair enough. But still, I’d feel guilty taking it out without you. Please join me. I know your wife wants it gone, but surely you miss driving around in the old girl?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I do miss zipping around in it... oh, hell, let’s go. One more spin for old time’s sake, eh?”
He unlocked the car, then tossed me the keys and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Before I got in, I pulled a pair of black leather gloves out of my pocket. “Driving gloves,” I said to George, who had an eyebrow raised at the sight.
“Haven’t seen anyone wearing them in a while.” He chuckled.
I smiled genially. “I’m bringing them back.” And leaving zero prints.
Mere minutes later, we were cruising along the winding road which led away from his property. “Turn on to Wexford Road and then get on Pearce Mill,” George said. “Gorgeous scenery along there, right through the park, and it’s quiet enough to really get this thing going without being bothered too much.”
“All right. She drives like a dream.”
“That she does. Shame to let her go, really, but I know whoever buys her will appreciate her more than I can at my age.” George peered at me. “So what do you do, anyway? Finance?”
His question was a thinly-veiled code for: how does someone your age have enough to afford this car?
“I’m a journalist,” I replied smoothly. “But my family have made a lot of good investments.”
He nodded. “I suppose that security takes some of the pressure off so you can work on good stories.”
“It does indeed. Right now I’m working on an investigative piece about the Heartbreaker. You know, that murderer running around the city?”
If he was nervous about the subject, he didn’t show it. “Ah, yes. Shame they haven’t caught him yet. It’s been long enough.”
It certainly has. Christ, I couldn’t wait to slice and dice him.
I smiled and nodded. “The first part of my article is actually about the police incompetence with the case, not to mention the shambling idiots at the FBI. Then it goes on to outline some new theories as to who he targets and why.”
George sat up straight when he heard that. I knew it would pique his interest. “What theories? I was under the impression he only stalks law enforcement and the like?”
“Well, sort of. There was that police chief years ago, and a couple of high-ranking detectives along with the lawyers, the judge, and the prison warden. But the latest victim… he was just a security guard for some private firm, apparently.”
“That could still count as law-related, I suppose.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps. But the theory I’ve been told by my sources goes more along the lines of throwing that old idea out entirely. Apparently, the killer could actually be targeting these men for another reason entirely, and it’s just a coincidence that the ones he’s gotten so far happen to be lawyers or whatnot. They might belong to some elite, secret organization, and the Heartbreaker is targeting them because of that.”
George shifted slightly and rubbed his chin. Now he was nervous. About time. “Really? Where did you hear that from?”
I winked. “A journalist never reveals his sources.”
He feigned an amiable smile. “Oh, of course.”
I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Gives you less to worry about, huh? Before now, you might’ve worried about being a target, seeing as you’re a judge. But now you have nothing to worry about. Not unless you’re a member of this secret cabal, with their little tattoos and penchant for young girls and boys. That’s the rumor, anyway.”
“I see.” A tremor crept into his voice, though he tried to maintain his composure. “What else do you know about this… this so-called cabal?”
I swerved farther to the right and pulled over on a shoulder across the road from a large lake, the key still in the ignition and the car purring around us as I reached into my pocket. “Enough to know that if I pull up your sleeve and take a peek at your left arm, you’ll have a teeny tiny circle tattoo there, seeing as you’re actually a member of the ‘so-called’ cabal. Right, George?”
His eyes widened. I always loved this moment with my victims; loved when the tiny, unseen cogs in their minds finally shifted and registered what was happening. “W-what? What is this?”
He tried his door, but I was the one with the key and the central locking button. I was the one in control, as always.
“You’ve all known for years that you have targets painted on your backs, surely. And yet, despite that, you weren’t careful enough to stop yourself from getting into a car with a complete fucking stranger.” I laughed briskly, humorlessly, then made a tsk-tsk sound as I jammed a needle into his neck. “I thought you said you could read people, George.”
He struggled, but his old body couldn’t handle it for long, and soon he was out cold beside me. I pulled him up straight and put a pair of dark sunglasses on him so any passersby would think he was just sitting next to me, enjoying a nice weekend drive through North Park with a quick stop to check out the gorgeous lake view. It was all so very Weekend at Bernie’s.
I drove back to where I’d hidden my car, then pulled up alongside in the Porsche. After checking to make sure no one was coming in any direction, I quickly dragged George out of the passenger seat and stuffed him in my trunk. After I’d had Celeste in there a few weeks ago, I’d taken the liberty of adding soundproofed padding around the edges of it, just in case the drugs wore off sooner than expected.
After the trunk was locked, I got back in the Porsche, drove it to George’s place, and parked it in the garage, exactly where it was when I arrived. I gave the seat a quick wipe-down to make sure I hadn’t left any stray hairs, then stepped out of the garage and clicked the little button on the fob, closing the door.
I tossed the keys into the front hedges, thick
with snowflakes. Someone would find them eventually, but not anytime soon.
I made the short trek back uphill to my car and took off for the long drive home, my latest catch curled up in the trunk.
This should make Celeste very happy.
7
Celeste
Alex returned an hour or so after lunchtime. I assumed he’d gone to work, so I was surprised when I heard the sound of his car pulling down the long driveway. I knew it was him, because no one else ever came out here, aside from that one time he had a colleague over to help with some sort of research project. And the only reason that even happened was because he wanted to punish me by locking me in that box and making sure I knew possible help was only a few feet away yet inaccessible, seeing as the colleague couldn’t see or hear me.
I walked to one of the front windows and peered through the curtains, my breath frosting on the glass. Alex had something large wrapped in a blanket, and he was hauling it out of his car’s trunk. My breath caught in my throat. I had a fairly good idea of what was contained within the swathed confines of the blanket.
I didn’t want to get in trouble for disturbing him, but he came into the house and asked me to follow him five minutes later anyway.
“I have something for you,” he said, eyes twinkling.
I trudged in the snow behind him until we reached the old fallout shelter. Alex took my hand and led me down into the cells, and my heart leapt into my throat. An old man was lying in the smaller cell, unconscious. Alex had removed his expensive jacket and shoes, and it had the effect of making the man look even older and more helpless, curled up on the cot barefoot and cold.
“Is that….” My voice trailed off, and I looked at Alex uncertainly.
“Justice George Baldwin. The judge whose lap you used to sit on.”
