Young Love Murder

by April Brookshire

  I’ve never told anyone, not even Max, that Anna wasn’t really abducted by the supposed masked murderer. I’ve never told him that Anna is the murderer. I suspect that Max still has a thing for her, but isn’t suffering the misery of loving her. He thinks of her as a damsel in distress, just his type.

  A part of me wants to tell him the truth. I don’t know why I don’t. I guess I just feel like the knowledge is between me and Anna, our filthy little secret. I’ll deal with her myself without others’ interference. Don’t want to risk anyone notifying the police of her involvement before I get the privilege of choking the life out of her.

  Max has a pained look on his face, whispering sadly, “Just say the word, man, and I’ll go looking for her with you.”

  “Where?” I scoff. “I have investigators on it and the police are conducting their own search. Don’t worry, Cuz, the moment she’s located, I’ll be on a plane to get her.” Kill her, but I keep that comment to myself.

  Max gives me an odd look. Perhaps the wording of that statement wasn’t what he would expect from a grieving and distressed boyfriend. But that isn’t what I am. I’m a man scorned. I laugh to myself and Max gives me another odd look.

  Shrugging, I turn back to where security has finishing with patting down the giggling coke-heads. “Do they look smart enough to commit murder?” I bark at one of the security men.

  He looks up at me from where he’s kneeling on the ground. “Are they on something?”

  I paste a shocked expression on my face. “What are you trying to imply?”

  He stands up, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

  I turn on my heel and walk up the steps to the front door. My high is just about gone and I’m over caring if anyone joins me at this point. The girls ooh and aah at the opulence of my family’s home. Not that we can be called a ‘family’ anymore. It’s more like a prescription drug-addicted mother and her bitter teenage son.

  Making my way up the staircase to my room, I announce, “This is my room,” to the girls. Max takes a seat in front of the television.

  “Wow. Your room is the size of my entire apartment,” the blonde says.

  “Um, okay. Sucks for you, I guess.” Turning on some music, I sit down in an armchair near Max.

  The brunette goes to sit by Max and the blonde gets right to business, straddling me. We start making out and, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Max and miss brunette doing the same thing. Feels like junior high all over again. Pulling away from the chick’s eager tongue, I shoot Max a look that tells him to get lost. He takes the hint and leads his girl out of the room, probably to the guest bedroom he sleeps in sometimes.

  The blonde and I start getting hot and heavy. Her taste and scent are wrong. I close my eyes and see Anna’s face, imagine she’s the one making those needy noises. Why the hell not? Leaving my eyes closed, the girl on my lap starts fumbling with the zipper on my pants while kissing my neck. “Anna,” I murmur.

  The blonde makes a bitchy sound that only the most irritating of bitches can make. “My name is not Anna,” she hisses.

  Leaning my head back against the headrest, so she can see my condescending expression, I tell her, “You should probably get the fuck off me then.”

  She looks shocked, opens her mouth as if to say something and then closes it again. Jumping off of me like my crotch is on fire, she marches to the door. Before slamming it shut, she yells, “Asshole!”

  So. The fuck. What?

  Max enters the room less than five minutes later. “I’m taking the girls home.”

  “Good riddance,” I mutter.

  He looks unsure. “Okay, anyways, think about what I said. I know the private investigators and the police are searching for Anna, but when we graduate in a few months we can start looking on our own.”

  I don’t say anything and Max shuts the door behind him, looking exasperated. I plan to do exactly what he suggested, I just don’t know if he’ll be invited to come along. When I graduate in three months, I’ll take any information the investigators have gathered and take off on my own search.

  I feel pretty damn pathetic, sitting here alone on Valentine’s Day, obsessing over a girl that screwed me over, literally and figuratively. I wonder what Anna is doing tonight and who she’s doing it with. She’s probably fucking someone else already, maybe the blonde fake Russian.

  I’m not going to delude myself into thinking that she doesn’t still have a hold on me. Obviously she does, otherwise I wouldn’t find it so hard to be with another girl. If I could get my hands on Anna right now, I don’t know if I would kiss her or kill her. Probably kiss her first and then kill her.

  There must be something that I missed. Some clue as to who she really is. The private investigators haven’t come up with squat and the police are just as baffled. They think they’re looking for a kidnap victim or the body of a murdered teenage girl. Maybe they aren’t looking in the right places.

  Grabbing a beer from my mini-fridge, I move to sit on the couch. If only I had a picture of her, so they’d have more than the drawing I dictated to a sketch artist. Then it comes to me. I fumble in my rush to grab my phone off the nightstand, looking through my contacts until I find the number that I’m looking for and dial it.

  “I have no new information, Mr. Sanchez,” my private investigator, Steven Russo, answers the phone, his voice raspy from years of smoking.

  I let out a bitter laugh. “What else is new? But, I do have information, something that I should have thought of three months ago.”

  “And what is that, Mr. Sanchez?” Russo’s voice perks up.

  “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “Yes.” I can hear him sitting up and paper rustling. He was probably in bed when I called.

  Racking my memory for the exact details, I instruct him, “Okay, write down these names: Annabelle Claire Blanc and Jackson Antoine Blanc.” I’m starting to feel excited and hopeful for the first time in months.

  “Who are these people?” Russo starts getting into detective mode.

  “I’m not sure, exactly, but I think they may be friends or relatives of Anna’s. The name, Annabelle, is similar to Anna’s name, although the name Anna Walker matching her age range hasn’t brought up anything, but I found a picture of these children in her hotel room. It could be nothing, but I think it’s worth checking out. The children both had brown hair and brown eyes.”

  “Sounds like a good place to start. I’ll look into it and let you know what I find. However, these names sound French to me and, along with the information you gave me that she was friends with a French Madam in Paris, we might have something here.” I can hear Russo typing on his laptop as he’s speaking to me.

  “Have you located the French Madam who knew her?” I’m eager for even the smallest lead. Before this phone call, the Madam was all we had to go by.

  “I’ve located a few and spoken to them over the phone, but none are admitting to knowing anyone by the name of Anna Walker. Or any girl with the description you gave me.” Russo explains.

  “Maybe we should travel to Paris and speak with them in person, show them the sketch. I’m sure enough of my father’s money will get the right one to talk.”

  “That may not be a bad idea. Let me look into the names you gave me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have any new information.” The sound of tapping keys accompanies his words.

  “Alright then.” I hang up on him and stand to pace the room.

  I’m going to find her. I know it. I’m feeling such a confusing array of emotions at the thought. Eagerness, happiness, excitement, anger and vengeance all at the same time.

  I wonder if she thinks of me as much as I think of her. Probably not. She’s most likely already forgotten that I existed. Throwing the half empty beer bottle against the far wall, I watch the brown glass shatter to the floor.

  Chapter 18

  Annabelle

  Tokyo, Japan - March 8th

  I cannot wait to kill this fucker
.

  I’m sitting in a private booth at a club called Vanilla, one of the hottest techno clubs in Tokyo. Located in a renovated industrial warehouse, the inside has been transformed into a place far from reality. From the unassuming exterior of the building, you’d never know that inside clear platforms rise above a dance floor where the lights, colors and patterns are synched to the beat of the electronic music thrumming throughout the building. Two stainless steel bars line opposite walls and showcase the DJ against the far wall. That wall has been turned into an electronic display with the DJ in the center, currently playing an 80kidz remix. Stereo speakers of all shapes and sizes are stacked from floor to ceiling. Multicolored lighting spans out to highlight people wearing anything from skirts that may have started as halter tops to girls dressed like Maka from Soul Eater. Women and men alike wear Harajuku style and Manga themed outfits, mixed with a few Westerners wanting to experience Tokyo’s club scene. Booths centered below some of the platforms allow VIPs, mostly dressed in-high fashion, to look up and view dancers above. Female servers wear school girl outfits with Mary Janes, while the male bartenders wear a uniform of black pants and black vests.

  My latest target, Ren Tanaka, is sitting next to me in one of those VIP booths. Sadistic motherfucker recently got off the hook for killing his wife. He was rich enough to hire the best lawyers in Japan and they were able to convince the jury of his innocence and grief over the death of his beloved wife. Of course it’s complete and utter bullshit. Unfortunately for him, his deceased wife’s family is just as rich and able to hire someone like me to see that justice is gladly served.

  The waitress brings me another vodka martini, my fourth actually. I had to sip them at first because they taste like complete crap, but after the three others this one tastes like water.

  Ren leans over to shout at me that he has to use the restroom. I smile at him flirtatiously and shout back over the loud electronic music, “Hurry back!”

  He gives me what he probably thinks is a sexy smile and saunters off towards the back of the club. Creep. I’ve been in Japan for the past two weeks. I spent the first week devising a plan to get close to him, and the second week being close to him but not finding the perfect opportunity to complete the contract. He usually chooses to surround himself with an adoring entourage. Tonight, it’s just me and him, surrounded by a couple hundred club goers.

  I’m tired and in need of a break. For the past several months, it’s been one job after another. After leaving Miami, I was pretty messed up for several weeks. That time was spent with Jackson in our London townhouse, in miserable reflection. By the end of November, though, I was able to at least function as a human being, as opposed to being a heartbroken teenage girl. How cliché. Jackson said it was probably good that I was at least able to experience one thing that other teenagers go through, break-up and heartbreak. He says that I've gotten it out of my system now. I told him my experience wasn’t quite the same as other girls.

  I started taking jobs again in December and haven’t stopped since. I haven’t even gone to any of our homes for downtime. Since leaving London in December, I’ve been to Brazil, China, Mexico, South Africa, Ireland, India and now Japan. I’m ready to take a break now. Maybe I’ll go back to London. And do what, Annabelle?

  Wonder what Jackson is doing right now. Last time I talked to him, he was finishing up a job in Quebec. It all sounded routine.

  Ren is taking too long in the bathroom and I want to get the hell out of Japan. Getting out of my seat, I follow him to the back of VIP. I scoped out the place as soon as I found out this was where we were going tonight, so I know exactly where all the security cameras are and I know when to turn my head away from them. Even if I slip up, all that the cameras will catch is a female with a blonde wig, spray tan, blue contacts and long fake eyelashes. I’m wearing a short, slinky royal blue dress and black heeled boots. Walking down the dimly lit restroom hallway, I reach into my black studded clutch and pull out a garrote.

  Looking around for potential witnesses, I enter the men’s bathroom. Ren is at a sink, washing his hands. There’s no one else in the VIP bathroom. He looks up into the mirror and sees my reflection behind him. He’s handsome when he smiles, with jet black hair and dark skin that set off his gleaming white teeth. “Are you here to attack me?”

  Not in the way he hopes I am. I mean, sex in the men’s bathroom? Don’t think so, especially not with him. As I lift up the garrote, his eyes go wide and he starts to move his right hand up to stop me.

  Too late.

  I quickly wrap the wire around his throat from behind and, holding onto the handles, tighten its hold on him. I prop one knee on his lower back to secure my grip. Pinned between me and the sink, he begins choking and wheezing. While his face turns red, so do his eyes as they bug out of his head. His throat starts bleeding as the wire digs into his skin.

  Even as his windpipe crushes, I realize that while the idea of a garrote is kind of cool, the reality is a long one. This is taking too much time. As he starts to pass out, I release the handles and grab onto both sides of his head.

  With a loud snap, his neck breaks. Catching him under the arms before his body drops to the floor, I drag him to the wheelchair-accessible stall. Dumping his body on the floor, I lock the stall then start to slide feet first underneath the locked door. Before I’m all the way under, I feel strong hands grab onto my calves and pull me the rest of the way out. Freeing a leg, I kick out in what would have been a hard blow, however, the person grabs onto my ankle to stop the impact.

  I glare up at the offender and yell, “Let go, Jackson!”

  He looks amused, but under the amusement, I can tell he’s pissed off. “No, I think I’ll hold onto it. You deserve it for being so sloppy.”

  “Your face is about to be sloppy if you don’t let go of my fucking ankle!” Finally he releases me, but not because he’s intimidated by my threat. He can beat me in a fight most days, when I’m sober and in the game. Right now, I’m more than a little drunk and haven’t really been in my A-game since the night I killed Xavier Sanchez. With a few drinks in my system, I wouldn’t stand a chance against Jackson at the moment.

  I get up off the nasty restroom floor and give him a reproachful glower. “What are you doing here? Spying?”

  He makes an angry gesture towards the stall. “It’s a good thing I am here! What’s going on in your head? Are you trying to get caught?”

  “Of course I’m not! Besides, standing here arguing with you isn’t a very good way of staying out of Japanese prison!”

  He sighs wearily, running a hand through his currently dark red hair. “You’re right. We’ll finish this conversation away from the dead body.” Bring it on, brother. Reaching down, he picks up the garrote I dropped, raising his eyebrows at me. “Really, Annabelle, a garrote? Isn’t this kind of old fashioned for the modern assassin?”

  I shrug, saying nonchalantly, “I’ve always wanted to try one out. Ren Tanaka strangled his wife to death. I thought it would be a fitting way for him to die.”

  Shaking his head, he gives me a stern look. “Annie, we were taught to strangle someone as a last resort, if no other weapon was available.”

  As he leads me out of the restroom and club, by the arm, I make a disgruntled sound. “Jeez Jacks, make me feel like a criminal, why don’t you?”

  He laughs despite his anger towards me. “Annie, we are criminals.”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” I grumble.

  Out on the street, Jackson hails a taxi to take us back to my hotel a few blocks away. The night air is cold, in the forties, so I gratefully climb into the small yellow and green car. Coincidentally, or not, he’s staying at the same hotel. We don’t converse during the ride through the brightly lit city streets. As we’re going up the hotel elevator to my room, I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing in Tokyo?”

  He grins at me mischievously. “What? I can’t come see my little sister?” The smile means trouble, usually directed a
t me and usually involving brotherly torture.

  “Of course you can, but you don’t usually sneak up on me while I’m making the kill.”

  “Annie, aren’t you forgetting something?” His pointed look doesn’t clue me in.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask in frustration, racking my brain for what that something could be.

  “Oh, let me see. What’s in two days?” He raises one eyebrow at me and I get the familiar urge to yank on it. One of these days, I’m going to wax them off.

  “Monday?”

  He shakes his head, as if disappointed, and sighs dramatically. “Annabelle, Annabelle. Two days from now is March 10th. Your birthday,” He emphasizes his words as if speaking to a child. “We always spend our birthdays together.”

  That’s right, I’m about to turn eighteen. What Jackson said is true. We do always spend our birthdays together. It’s one of the rare times that we do normal-people stuff, things real families do. “I totally forgot.”

  We enter my hotel room and he pulls me in for a hug. “I know. You’ve had a hard time the past four months, but now I’m here to take you to Paris in time to celebrate.”

  I pull back. “Why Paris?”

  He has an impassive look on his face as he says, “Simon has received information.”

  “What kind of information?” I step away from him and place my hands on my hips, knowing that something’s up.

  He gets cold look in his eyes from whatever he’s thinking. Huh, he’s wearing gray contacts. “All sorts of wonderful information,” he says sarcastically. “Sit down. It’ll take a while to get through the list.”

  Sitting down in a chair nearby, I look at him expectantly. “Well?”

  He also sits down, leaning back in a slouched position. “Well, let’s see. Where should I start first? How about Brazil?”

  “What about Brazil?” I ask warily.

  “Simon has received reports on your assassination methods in each of your past six assignments, not including the current one.”

  “And?” I ask, already knowing what he’s about to say.