by Trisha Wolfe
A young man wearing a blue postal uniform raises his hands. “Whoa—”
“What do you want?”
I’m wary of everyone these days. As I study the man, he appears harmless, but I know how easily one can be deceived. The mini-Taser I keep clipped to my belt loop withdraws back to its place on a retractable cord.
“That’s pretty convenient,” the guy says, then takes a hesitant step forward. I notice a small package in his hand.
“Don’t move,” I say. “What is that?”
He holds it out to me. “It’s for Dr. Noble,” he claims. “I tried your office, but it was closed. Then someone said you just left the building, and I saw you heading this way. Are you Dr. Noble? This package is kind of time sensitive…”
“How much were you paid to deliver it personally?”
A guilty blush tinges his cheeks. “It’s important that I get this to you today.”
Dammit. This feels wrong. If Grayson wants to reach me, he does so. He doesn’t involve others—but maybe he’s too far away. Maybe this is the only way he can contact me.
“Who gave it to you?” I ask. When he shakes his head, clueless, I push. “Was it a man? What did he look like?”
“I didn’t see him,” he admits. “Look. My boss handed it to me and said he’d pay me cash to get it to you quickly. But this shit is starting to freak me out…”
“All right. Give it here.” I accept the package and wait for the guy to leave, making sure I’m alone before I start to inspect it.
Regardless of the high foliage and secluded sanctuary of the aviary, I’m too exposed here. The postal worker proved how easy it is to follow someone when you’re determined. And all he wanted was some cash.
Nelson wants much more…
I tear the brown packaging open.
The guy said time sensitive, and I’ve been waiting weeks for something to happen. Inside the package is a small black, cardboard box. Anxious, I ease the top off, and my heart gallops.
A clover rests on a bed of fleecy cotton.
I glance around the garden, my chest tight. “Grayson…”
I close the box and head out of the aviary, the feeling that I’m not alone lingering on the edge of my thoughts.
It started here. It has to end here.
* * *
The chest-thumping beat beckons me closer. It’s like gravity, drawing me in and through the doors of the Blue Clover. The sultry music engulfs my senses, a hypnotic trance that reels me through the throng of close-pressed bodies.
I’ve been here before. A familiar, tantalizing promise lingers in the air—the promise of escape. Freedom. I can still taste a hint of it as the mesmerizing colors swirl within a smoky haze over the dance floor.
We had a design. We had each other.
But then, I was sheathed in a disguise, hidden—able to camouflage my desires for a night. There was no question of London or Lydia. There was only my longing to be his.
This time, there’s no mask to shield me. My designer black dress suit hugs my curves like perfectly fitted armor. My black-and-nude pumps clash with the wild atmosphere, and probably cost more than every outfit here.
I’m aware of how blatantly I stand out as I move through the dance club. Women size me up, men look too eager to approach me, as if I’m lost, as if I’m on the prowl, a huntress craving flesh.
Which was the whole point when I chose the club as our secret reunion spot. No one would suspect me to come here. Dr. London Noble wouldn’t blend.
Maybe I should’ve donned a disguise tonight. Made sure I saw him first before he noticed me—but that’s part of the strategy.
Let him take me.
I stalk the scene on a mission.
The music changes speed, the rhythm faster, matching my rapid heartbeat. Annoyed, I fend off advances, waving away two men in cheap suits, and take up the back wall where I discovered Grayson once before. Smoke rolls across the floor in vibrating neon flashes, the beat climbs higher, and bodies crowd together in a dense mass, obscuring my vision.
For the first time in months, a twinge of pain nudges my lower back. Out of habit, I adjust my posture to compensate for the heels, and a spike of alarm stabs my chest.
This isn’t right.
The smoke machine spits vapors at me, stealing my breath. My head spins. The dark club is suddenly too bright. I’m pushing through the condensed bodies toward the exit, hands snagging my clothes, my hair.
Something’s wrong.
The thought hits me as someone presses up against my backside. A strong arm circles my waist. Irritation claws at my defenses, and I clamp my hand around the thick wrist at my pelvis. “Get off.”
“I could probably manage that, but I’d love to know what getting you off—really off—feels like.”
Nelson’s gruff voice reaches my ears past the hyped music. My body tenses, my hold on his arm turning to stone.
“Where’s Grayson?”
It’s the most important question. Every contingency to follow rides on his answer.
He feathers my hair over my shoulder, rough fingers stroking my neck. “Shh. You’re going to ruin the surprise.” Then he presses hard against me, making me aware of the gun tucked in his waistband.
I wrench out of his hold and spin to face him straight-on. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I look around at all the people in the club. “This isn’t some cliché movie, Nelson. You’re not going to stick a gun in my side and lead me to some remote location. If you’re going to kill me, do it. Right now. In front of everyone here.”
He chuckles. “God, you really are a snotty bitch.”
“And you’re merely a pathetic imitator,” I sling back. “At least we can be honest with each other now.”
He stalks forward and lowers his voice. “Do you really want to make a scene? What are your chances to discover what I’ve done with your lover then?”
The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.
So the question becomes: Who wants it more?
Me.
“Take me to him,” I demand.
I don’t give him another moment. We’re already drawing too much attention. I start off the dance floor, and Nelson’s hand slips into mine. “So we don’t get separated,” he says.
The cool night air is a strange comfort as I push outside. The chill chases away some of the sickly dread festering inside that the heat of the club allowed to thrive. I remove my hand from Nelson’s grip as I start down the steps.
“Your phone, London.”
Without turning around, I dig my cell from my suit pocket and hand it to him from over my shoulder. “Is he alive?”
The question leaves behind a sour aftertaste. I squeeze my eyes closed.
I hear the distinct crunch of my phone beneath his boot. Then the former agent moves in front of me. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I discern the scratches I put on his face. Now faint and healed over, but they’re there. He notices my inspection with an irritated scowl.
I smile. “Everyone has scars, Nelson. It’s what defines us.”
Without a rebuttal, he forces me to walk. We’re heading in the same direction, following the exact path I took once before. I know he’s going to turn the corner into the alley before he directs my course down the darkened lane between the buildings.
“Being on the run from the authorities…” I hedge. “You’re really taking this copycat thing to the next level.”
Still no response.
“Why do you do it, Nelson? For the rush? For the sheer satisfaction of outsmarting the Feds?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand is what I do. Try me.” When he remains silent, I add, “I know about your family. What happened to them.”
“You don’t know anything,” he snaps, driving a hand through his u
nkempt hair.
“Then explain it to me. Make me understand.”
He chuckles, incensed. “You’re so fucking annoying.” Only he delves into his story. “I was working a case,” he says. “I should’ve been there. But this perp… With all the regulations and red tape, I couldn’t bring him in. So I had to sit on him, and wait. Just wait for him to make a move so I could catch him in the act. I thought I couldn’t live with myself if he killed another girl while I wasn’t looking.”
I slow my steps, and Nelson matches my pace.
“I was wrong. I found out that what I couldn’t live with was the guilt of not being there for my wife. For my little baby son. Had I been there, that accident never would’ve happened.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t.”
“Oh, but I can. I know that if I’d been there, she never would’ve been driving late at night to get medicine for him. I would’ve been behind that wheel, not her. So when it comes to the ‘bad guys’—” he makes mocking air quotes “—I no longer dick around. If I know you’re guilty, you’re mine. No time wasted on protocol.”
I look at him. “No matter how far you have to go to catch the bad guy. No matter how many victims—”
“As far as I’m concerned, I did the world a favor. I’m a hero. Every one of my victims had a rap sheet a mile long. Scum of the earth. They had it coming, and now the world is better for their absence.”
Delusions of grandeur. Only Nelson isn’t the hero of this piece. He can’t be.
“You used your inside connections with the FBI to target victims,” I say, analyzing. “Sloppy.”
He scoffs. “You’re one to talk, doctor death.”
I eye him from my periphery. “How did you know about the Blue Clover?”
Silent, he strolls down the alley clad in a white T-shirt and jeans, so different than the put-together FBI agent I remember. He strolls like we’re just two people on a walk. No worries. No malice between us.
I’m not a threat to him. At least, not in the traditional sense. Nelson disappeared in part due to the imminent investigation after my attack—but mostly, once Grayson escaped law enforcement, Nelson went in pursuit of his obsession, his need to capture Grayson his primary goal; chasing his objective without the interference of the FBI to hinder him.
Nelson shouldn’t be underestimated. It takes a strong will to turn your back on the only life you know in pursuit of another, in spite of all else.
Which also makes him dangerous.
He’s a man with nothing to lose.
We come to our destination. The abandoned mechanic garage I selected myself. Nelson finally looks at me and says, “You told me.” He brings out a key, and I notice that the lock on the rusted metal door is new. He pushes the door open and sweeps his hands in an invitation, urging me forward.
As I enter the garage, memories of Grayson flood my mind. I feel him everywhere.
Then I see the locks.
I’m thrust back to the mouth of the maze and all the gleaming keys. Only now, every silver and gold and bronze shimmering object stares back at me with the eyes of rusted notches and mouths of keyholes.
“This isn’t your trap,” I say, my voice breathy. I recognize the construct, the details—all the hours of rigorous study and research I put into the design.
“I can’t take the credit,” Nelson says, edging closer. “But I can take the prize.”
A sharp prick at my neck, and I react. I’m fighting off Nelson and grasping at the needle sinking deep as my vision blurs. Drowsiness claims me, and my muscles go lax.
Nelson captures me before I hit the cement. My breaths shallow, my racing heart the only part of my body still filled with fight.
“I’m the bait,” I whisper.
He smoothes my hair away from my face, gaze cast down as he cradles me. “There was no other way, London.”
Grayson is coming.
It’s my last thought before blackness takes me.
23
Look Upon Thy Death ~Romeo & Juliet
Grayson
Perfection.
The ultimate assumption that it can be attained if one works hard enough, sacrifices enough, is determined enough to prevail…is the very definition of insanity.
But what is this maddening thing we call perfection?
It’s different for everyone.
That one, blissfully high moment of utter and complete satisfaction, of achievement. It’s a sweet glimpse of heaven. A split-second where demons depart and the gates inch open, granting us a limited view of something holy.
We have reached the top of the mountain. We have conquered. We reap our reward.
Ah, that reward doesn’t come freely. There’s a price.
Fear.
Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light.
The truth is a nice dash of salt in a fresh, cavernous wound.
Once we’ve tasted the sweetest perfection, savoring it on our tongue, everything that follows can only be bland by comparison. Or worse; a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach.
The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low.
A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.
Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.
Maybe we still can.
My ears pick up the low thump of bass as I walk past the Blue Clover. I pull my jacket hood over my head, dodging a drunken, laughing group. Getting back to Maine was harder this time. Before, the authorities assumed I wouldn’t return—now they’re expecting me.
Luckily, Agent Nelson left me a trail of breadcrumbs. This is where he wants me. Which means he has leverage. He has her.
Let him take me.
London’s haunting words have set my course since I escaped the Rockland jailhouse. This is her design, and as she’s the dominant force, I’ve conceded to her request. Though it wasn’t easy; I caught up to Nelson twice, and both times I waited. And watched.
No one can run forever.
There are only two certainties for men like us. You’re either caught or killed.
But unlike Nelson, I have an anomaly—a beautiful dark angel who defies convention.
I notice the shiny lock on the warehouse door. It hangs open, an invitation. There’s no stealthy entrance on my part as I slide the door open. Nelson wants me here, London wants me here…so here I am.
Let the games begin.
I walk inside, and as soon as I see her, my heart lurches. It only ever beats for her.
Suspended above the garage on a hydraulic car lift, London floats there like the angel she is—a vision.
Her mouth and eyes are covered, but she can hear me. She’s been stripped of her clothes—her flesh on display, all except for her thin bra and panties. Wire ropes project from her wrists and waist….holding her aloft…like a beautifully disturbed marionette.
The cables are anchored around the lift’s arms—the yellow steel beams that support an automobile—and she dangles from just below. The cables flow above the lift, stretched taut above like piano strings, and fold over a second lift bar to drop down like rain. But instead of raindrops, padlocked weights dangle from the cables.
I tear my gaze away momentarily to study the mechanism. Within seconds, I’ve calculated the system.
The lift is set on a timer. Lowering her every minute. The countdown will end with London submerged in an 8ft shipping container.
It’s beautiful, really.
The trap London and I began to design that first night here, now complete, realized to its full potential. A trap I could truly appreciate, if not for Nelson’s fingerprints all over it, corroding it.
“I thought to myself,” Nelson’s voice sounds out, “it’s unfortunate that you’ve never
had the pleasure of starring in one of your own traps.”
I push the hood off and unzip my jacket. “What’s in the container?”
“A concentrated sulfuric acid compound,” he replies. “Your recipe.”
I smirk and toss my jacket aside. “A copycat down to the last detail.” But I realize London’s exposed flesh will be submerged in the mixture with no barrier to mute the damage. This sobers me.
“That’s just the perfectionist in me. I do have a whimsical side. Like the addition of the locks…just for you. It’s a metaphor.”
I’m already tired of his voice. “Very clever.” I glance around and notice a covered rubber tub beneath the dangling locks.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
I stride to the tub and toe the lid open.
Keys.
At least a hundred gleaming keys fill the bottom of the bin…and they’ve been filed into lethal-looking weapons. The edges knife-sharp.
A hiss echoes through the garage, and the hydraulic lift lowers a notch. I look up at London. She’s strong, but her body reacts from the jolting motion, her muscles quaking with involuntary tremors as she sways only feet above the container.
The weighted locks above my head clang together, moving another few inches higher.
“I knew from the moment I found the doctor alive that she was the key to you,” Nelson says. “I admit, for a while, you eluded me. You’re a conundrum. A psychopathic killer in love… Not only is it ridiculous, but it goes against every FBI profile we have.”
“I’m not a profile.”
“You will be now. See, I struggled—with every kill—to get inside your head, but I don’t have to share your obsession to beat you. I just needed her.”
London is so much more than a mere obsession.
“If you try to remove her from the trap,” Nelson continues, “I push the button on the lift controls. She might survive the acid dunk…but she won’t be very pretty anymore.”
I grit my teeth and whirl around, looking for the man behind the voice. “You could just shoot us both. Save us the trouble.”
He tsks. “Do you think I’m doing this for you? For her? I don’t give a fuck how you two twists kill each other in the end. She dies by your hand—by your death trap—that means I get to go back.”
