by Smith, Skye
A hundred, for a three block ride. Maya looked at the meter. There was a seventy dollar waiting charge. She was too exhausted, too depressed, too confused to ask questions. She just sat still for three blocks and then allowed Wendy to usher her through the hotel lobby and up to her room.
Reality weighed heavy on her soul and Maya made straight for her bed. It took her but a second to drop her coat on the floor and to flip her the coral dress off, and that was almost all that she was wearing. She climbed between the sheets; looked longingly at the box of Honey Nut heaven but was too tired; looked once at Wendy, but decided that since Wendy obviously had a passkey card it didn't matter if she stayed or went; glanced at the clock on the other side of the bed, where it was only nine o'clock even though on her side of the bed it felt like midnight; and fell asleep.
* * * * *
One weird thing about Manhattan was they were still in love with colorful neon lights, if only to relieve the November grays. The flashes from the signs outside were creating shadows in her room. There was definitely someone in her room with her, and it wasn't Wendy. It was a male shape, and Wendy was definitely female. Absodefinitely. When she heard the unmistakable sound of someone peeing in a toilet while standing up, she sat bolt upright and pulled her sheets up to her neck.
"Shhh," came Wendy's voice from the other bed. "It's okay, it's just Mr. Hanover. Don't worry, he won't be a danger to any woman for a few hours yet."
Relieved to know what was happening, sort of, she rolled over and fell back to sleep. She re-entered the most wonderful dream about sunshine and beaches. When next she woke it was to the sound of a man in the throws of passion, then silence save for heavy breathing. A warm body, scented by sex, slipped under the sheets next to her.
"That will hold him for a while longer," whispered Wendy. "Come and cuddle me. Men, they always break off and lie on their backs panting just when I need a good cuddle." Maya didn't move so Wendy wrapped her arms around her and pulled her close in like a spoon.
Later, when the room had natural light, Mr. Hanover ordered a room service breakfast, which was more than enough for Maya to completely forgive him for staying in her room. She was so hungry. For a coffee and a croissant she would have forgiven him anything.
Wendy busied herself serving the food and playing mother to his tea pot, and was most atentative to the old guy, who was maybe even as old as sixty. She was being careless with her robe, on purpose careless, all for him. It tended to gape open as she served him. She was, well, no other way to say it, stacked.
He must have been handsome in his youth. He was tall and straight and well spoken, with an up-the-nose Brit accent that when she first heard it, had thought it was Michael's ghost come to haunt her. He ate with the finickity manners that reminded her of Canadians, but more so. She slowed her hunger and played along by matching his good manners with her own, whereas Wendy wolfed her food and spoke with her mouth full in true New Yorker style.
"So is this your room or mine?" asked Maya after swallowing some well-chewed cheese and taking the merest sip of coffee.
The man pointed to the messed up beds. "It seems to be both of ours."
"Bloody computers," Maya said wistfully. "After breakfast I'll go down and get the room that my company was supposed to have moved me to."
"Umm," he said and then looked at Wendy who gave him a slight nod. "Umm, we can talk about it after breakfast." There was something in the way he said it that carried more meaning than it should have.
* * * * *
When they were all well and done with breakfast, Wendy stacked everything on the trolley and pushed it out into the hall. He was in the bathroom. Maya looked over to an attaché case on the end of his bed. He had left it unlocked. She walked past the bed and, oh my, accidentally brushed against the case and it slipped onto the floor.
Her heart froze. She felt like puking. Out of the case had spilled a file folder of papers, and the top paper was a photo of her. She bent low, and spread the sheaf of papers out. There were names, addresses, and summaries of most of the men that her aura had killed over the last few months. She was frozen in place staring at them when she felt Wendy behind her.
"I've got to get out of here," she told Wendy as she stood up. "This guy must be FBI. He must be after me."
"He's not FBI and before you can do anything, you must get dressed."
Maya did as she was told. She got dressed, and then took her purse with all her ID, and went and sat in the living room part of the suite, while Mr. Hanover got dressed in the bedroom. Wendy hovered near the door out to the hallway. When Mr. Hanover came out of the bedroom, he sat at the small dining table and spread the papers from the file folder out in front of him.
"Come and sit with me, child," he said, "we have much to discuss."
As she sat down slowly at the table, Wendy also sat. Maya balked. "I'm not going to discuss my personal life with a hotel towel girl listening in. Send her away."
He gave her a look of shock and surprise. "Miss Brooks is my personal assistant."
"I don't care what you, like call her. She's a masseuse-come-hooker from the hotel's massage parlor, and I won't talk while she's here." She gave Wendy a defiant look.
"I think I can explain," Wendy said softly to the man. "Yesterday when I booked this room for you I pretended I was from her studio and told them that she did not need to move. That all they had to do was to switch the account to another charge card. I asked for a cardkey, and they gave me one.
I waited until Maya went out and then I used my card to come in and search her things. I was still in the room when she returned, so I pretended to be a maid goofing off watching TV. I used the towels as part of my cover. When she went out again, later on, I followed her, and brought her back."
"But what is a towel girl?" he asked.
"Hotel staff who give special massages for tips," Wendy replied then looked at Maya, "I understand your confusion. I really am his personal assistant, and bodyguard, and driver."
Maya took this all in and then said, "I want to see your badges."
Again Wendy jumped in. "As I said before, we are not from the FBI. Far from it."
"Then who are you, and like, why do you have this file about me, and why did you take over this room?"
"Ahh," he replied, "now may I begin?" He did not wait for permission. "I am Nigel Hanover, or if you prefer Sir Nigel, or Headmaster Hanover."
"What is a headmaster?"
"I am the headmaster of a school, well actually two schools in England."
"He means principal," Wendy interrupted.
"Oh well then, like, it all makes sense now," Maya retorted theatrically.
"The schools I administer are the schools that train the sons of the ruling classes, to, well, rule. They have done so for a thousand years, since the time of the Norman Conquest. The schools are small and exclusive and we screen the entrants closely. The boys must not just be from elite families, they must also be gifted."
"Blah, blah, blah," Maya had sucked up her courage enough to be forceful and rude. "If you don't have any badges, then I'm out of here."
Wendy stood first and pushed Maya back down. "Sit still, shut up, and listen. Sir Nigel does not deserve such rudeness. That file he has would be of great interest to the coroner's inquiry on Monday."
Maya started feeling sick to her stomach again. This was not good. This was very bad. She sat still.
"When I say that the boys must be gifted, I mean that not only must they be motivated, energetic, and intelligent. Most importantly, they must be missing the emotion of remorse. We train them to be our future leaders. The type of men who can make the decisions that need to be made, without being stymied by the fear of the unpleasant consequences."
"Emotion of remorse, missing, remorse," Maya's eyes widened, "you train psychopaths. You run a school that trains rich psychopaths."
"I do not allow the use of that term, and I take exception to your use of it. Our students are gifted. They are born to
lead. That term is an insult to them, and to their families. It is the label that the gutter press puts on common murderers."
"So you say," Maya said, while sizing up Wendy. Did someone say she was his bodyguard. She did look fit. Under her sleek skin and womanly curves there were defined muscles. If she wanted to make a run for it, she would have to disable Wendy first. Like, whack her shins with something hard.
"In Vancouver," he pushed a photo towards her, "you killed this man. He was one of our alumni. He controlled a worldwide drug and munitions empire. Since then his wife has scuppered the entire empire and has turned vans full of evidence over the UN. Don't deny it. We know you killed him, or at least, were the cause of his death."
Maya looked at the photo and wanted to puke. She was in so much trouble. How could she get away? If she did, would these two send the FBI after her? All they had to do was show that file.
"Look at this list of probable causes of death," he showed her another paper. "Mix of illegal drugs causing cardiac arrest. Heart attack. Heart attack. Probable heart attack. Cardiac arrest. Sudden death syndrome. It goes on and on. And here is a report from the agent we sent to Vancouver to interview your acquaintances there."
He read from a list of quotes. "Magic hands"; "She has healing hands"; "She has an aura that you can feel"; "She has a very strong aura"; "She uses her aura to sense illness"; He pointed to one that was circled. "She is a diviner. She can divine sickness in the body and mind."
He looked up from his papers and then without warning, he reached over to her and grabbed her by the collarbone.
The effect on Maya was almost immediate. A wave of darkness, depression, anxiety, a feeling of doom, faintness, the scent of charred toast. She tried to wriggle free, but she was losing her ability to concentrate, she was slumping in her chair, the table was rising up towards her face. And then he let go, and she could breath again.
"So, you are a diviner then. A divvy," he said in a soothing tone. "Excellent." He was interrupted by Wendy's phone.
"Yes, he is," Wendy told the phone. "I'll put you through, sir." She pointed at her boss, and he pulled out his phone and answered it as soon as it rang. Meanwhile she stood behind Maya and on alert.
"Hanover speaking;
Good morning Charles;
No, not at all;
Oh no. That is a shame. He was a good man. Umm, where did this happen?"
He wrote something on one of Maya's pages. "Yes, got it;
Yes;
Well thank you of thinking of us first. Is it possible to sell before Monday's opening?
Sidney it is, then. Again, thank you." He clicked his phone off and stared at it. "Bugger."
"What's up?" asked Wendy.
He pushed his writing across the table to her. "Do you recognize this address?"
"Oh my god. That is where I picked Maya up last night."
"Why am I not surprised," he moaned. "She has killed another of our lads. Michael Percy, class of '97 or '98. He was Lehman's derivative ace. I've asked them to sell all of our holdings in all of his instruments. Monday's opening could be brutal." He looked down at the folder of papers and sighed. He should have caught an earlier flight from London, then this never would have happened.
Maya made a bolt for the door. She would have made it if she hadn't taken a split second on the slight detour to grab her bag. She had to grab it. It held her passport, her credit cards, and the company Blackberry. She had it in her hand when she felt herself flying through the air and she put her arms out to break her fall. She tried to roll and keep moving, but Wendy blocked her way and pushed her forcibly against the wall.
The old man stood and walked towards the two women. "Tut, tut, girl. We mean you no harm. You are much too valuable to us. Wendy, why didn't you bring her right back last night?"
Wendy was suddenly put on the defensive and it took her a minute to collect her memories. "I didn't catch up to her until she was already ordering food in a greasy spoon, so I waited outside. Then a woman close to her fell off her stool and started to spasm. Some kind of fit."
"Grand Mal, epilepsy," sighed Maya straightening herself against the wall and trying to get her legs poised for another break.
"She and a young guy walked the woman back to her apartment. I waited outside, for, for a long time. Then the ambulances arrived, then the police. I assumed the woman had taken a turn for the worse. There was a taxi waiting across the street. The driver told me he was waiting for someone on the meter. I told him I would pay the meter, and used the taxi to bring Maya here."
Maya was angry that all her good intentions were being dismissed so handily by Wendy. "No one else would help her, so I did. The taxi must have been Michael's. He had come to pick up the woman and her, shall we say friend, to take them to a V.I.P. party. He was going to rape me and then force me to be the main course at the party. He shouldn't have done that. He looked so nice, and at first he was so charming, but he was evil."
"V.I.P. party?" he looked questioningly at Wendy.
"It's a party format that Wall Street has borrowed from the other casinos in New Jersey and Nevada. When an attractive woman loses at the tables, they let her work off her debt by servicing the high stakes gamblers. A fancy party is held to introduce the punter men to the peon women. It is supposed to be a pairing off, but it often turns into a gang bang. You know what a gang bang is?"
He nodded, and then he reached out to the young woman huddled against the wall. She shied away from his hand. "Ahh," he said and retreated to the bedroom and returned wearing driving gloves. He offered his hand again. "Come back to the table, child. I have more to show you." This time, with him in gloves, she took his hand.
At the table he pulled a second file from his attaché case. It was filled with papers that looked like photocopies of pages from very old books. "Ah, here it is. From an account by Queen Margaret of Scotland, Saint Margaret of Scotland." He read the text to himself. "Do you read Latin? No, I didn't expect so. I will translate."
He held the paper up to the light. "She is describing the healing powers of the women of the Fens region of England. Do you know it? No, I didn't expect so. She speaks of the Frisian women in villages near to Bourne north of Cambridge. Her family paused there while fleeing from William the Conqueror. Her brother was Edgar Atheling, but I don't suppose you know him, either. No. Of course not.
Here is her description. 'Their hands hover like a hummingbird, and some force of great good flows from their hands and underneath the skin and dissolves the evil that it finds their, thus curing many illnesses.' Mmm, mmm, mmm, ah here it is. ' Great care near the neck and head, for if the evil is an evil of the mind, the good may dissolve the essence of life and that can be fatal'."
Maya snatched the paper out of his hand and looked at the hand-written script. It was all Greek to her. She handed it back. "Please read me more."
"Ah, I thought so," he pointed to the dozen pages in the file. "As we have been an elite school for a thousand years, we also have a library that spans a thousand years. It took one of my librarians a week to assemble these pages from the time I told him what to look for. Do you want them? Any Latin scholar can interpret them for you."
"Please," she said. It was a dream come true. She wasn't a freak. There were or had been others like her. "Please, now, read me more."
He picked up another sheet. "This was written by Christina, Margaret's sister, who became a noted Abbess. umm, umm, umm," he read to himself and then translated, "And just the touch of a Norman knight would cause great darkness of spirit in the healers, and great lust in the knights. 'Twas the undoing of many a knight, for the touch of the healer to his neck could send the knight's spirit immediately to his reckoning." He watched the excitement that these words awoke in the young woman. "Maya, come and work for me."
"What?" Maya breathed.
"Come and work for me. I will hire you as a research librarian at a handsome wage. You will be supplied an elegant apartment on a school estate. You will enjoy w
orking at both of our schools. They are both on the upper Thames. Uh, that's a river in England," he said to her blank look. "You will have access to all of these books, and more."
"What?" Maya repeated. "Why on earth do you think for one moment that I would, like, want to be around so many psychos and psychos in training. Even you are a psycho. Just what every woman wants, like, a psycho boss."
"That word is insulting. You have already been warned. However, you would be doing a great service to society. We train boys to become useful, productive men. Good leaders. Men who would otherwise become a danger to society and especially to women. Our greatest failing to date, is in separating those who pretend to have the gift, from those who truly have the gift. There are many pretenders. You can divvy them for us. We would instantly know and choose different paths for the pretenders."
"I signed a movie contract. I have a job."
"Pah," he said, waving away the argument with his hand. "As I recall the movie was trash. A vampire comedy."
"Actually," Wendy interrupted, "it's doing well at the box office, and there's talk of a sequel. I have seen the trailers and Maya is in them. For sure she will be offered the sequel. Vampire movies and books are doing well in this country. American teenage girls love them, for some unknown reason."
He gave her a look of exasperation to shut her up. She was doing more damage than good. "Maya, I don't think you quite grasp the importance of what I am asking you to do. No one I have ever met can tell apart someone with the gift, from the narcissistic pretenders. The situation is getting worse, because narcissism is becoming rampant in our modern society."
"I call them Fauxpaths," Maya interrupted. "They walk the walk and talk the talk but they are just acting the part."
"Exactly. They are acting as if they are gifted, and some of them are consummate actors, but underneath they are a basket case of insecurity. They need the worship of those around them to keep up their act. They feed on the worship. When that worship falls apart, or when they are severely criticized, or when they finally lose their nerve, or succumb to guilt or remorse, well, well, they simply fall apart, complete breakdown. Poof. Useless."
