by Skylar Cross
"Is he a bank customer?" said Dan.
"Yes," I said, "but the phone number he gave us is disconnected. And the address he used doesn't exist. I did a web search and as far as I can tell he doesn't really exist."
"Oooh, a mystery," said Nikki. "I love mysteries. What type of man is he?"
"Well, he looks a little like one of the guys that played James Bond before the current guy."
"Pierce Brosnan," said Dan. "He was a lightweight. Daniel Craig is so much better."
"No, not that one. Who was the one before that?"
"Timothy Dalton?"
"Yes, kind of like him only younger and better-looking with a bigger squarer jaw. Bigger frame too, like he has lots of muscles. Slicked-back black hair. Deep aquamarine eyes. Expensive suit. Got that picture?"
"Oooh, I sure do," said Nikki.
"Now add to that the arrogant way George Clooney walks and talks like he's the total shit."
"Oh honey that's the total package right there," said Nikki.
"Hey!" said Dan, "I'm right here!"
"Sorry, hun," said Nikki and kissed him on the cheek. "Nobody's more manly than you."
We were at Mass Ave. We turned right. The cars on the Pike hummed in streams underneath us.
"So do you have anything else to go on?" said Nikki.
"No," I said. "That's the problem. All I know is that he's rich and his name is Horace Willoughby."
"Horace Willoughby?" said Nikki. "No way. That isn't the name he gave you, is it?"
"Yes, why?"
"That's the name of a character in a book I read a long time ago. Damn, I don't remember the name of the book but I remember Horace Willoughby because it was so silly."
I almost stopped dead in my tracks.
"Was the name of the book Death at Sea?" I said.
"Yes!" said Nikki. "That's it. You've read it then."
"No. I just... I ... I think I just heard it somewhere," I said.
"It's the most god-awful boring story," said Nikki. "My dad had an old copy on his bookshelf. I think it was written back in the 1930s. Or twenties maybe. It sucked."
"What's it about?"
"You know, I completely forget. Something about a treasure. It was so bad I've forgotten the details. I just remember that name."
"Hmm, interesting," I said.
After pinging our Charlie Cards and passing through the stalls, we parted ways. Nikki's place is in the North End and I lived the opposite direction in Allston. I fucking hate Allston. I'm only there because it's cheap but I'm sick of the college parties, the dilapidated buildings, and people throwing up in the streets.
As I rode the B-train I noticed a guy I had seen earlier. About forty, red hair in a crew-cut, plain dark green jacket, black pants and shoes. Reading a newspaper.
A light chill surrounded my body. I'm not sure why, but I felt incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden.
The B-train emerged from the tunnel and several people got off at Blandford Street. At each stop, the crowd thinned more and more but Red Crew-Cut just stayed there.
Where did I see him earlier in the evening?
Trying to remember, I stole a couple of glances at him. He was engrossed in his paper.
The restaurant!
Before we went in, he was outside. I saw him standing in front of a doorway. And he was reading a newspaper then!
My heart beat faster. I reached into my purse without looking and touched the key.
The damned key.
What the fuck? Why is this happening to me? Why did Horace Fucking Willoughby give me that damned key? Does he want me to retrieve what's in the box?
Doesn't he know there's no way I can do that? Not only would it be a breach of bank security, I could never possibly get away with it. Not with all the protocols and security cameras in place.
Like anyone ever checks that.
Troy's words came back to me in a flash. No, I think Troy is wrong. If anything suspicious ever happened, the first thing they would do is retrieve the video.
But they wouldn't retrieve the video if they didn't know anything was taken.
Shut up, Kiri. I'm not taking what's int the box. It belongs to H.
H.
My God, I barely know this man. And yet I'm comparing every man I see to him now. I'm even going home with strangers and pretending they're him. I'm not acting like myself at all lately.
Not to mention those two vividly lifelike flashes of being on a sinking boat. What the fuck is that? And now I swear I'm being followed. I think I might be losing my mind. Maybe it's time to seek some help.
The train lurched left a little too fast at Packard's Corner. Red Crew-Cut kept staring at his paper.
I'm just being paranoid, right? He probably had dinner with friends in the Back Bay and is heading home just like me, right?
I zipped my purse shut. My stop was next. I got up and walked to the door at the end away from Red Crew-Cut. Nobody else moved.
The train stopped at Harvard Street and he turned to face the door.
Shit, he's getting out here at my stop!
His doors opened a full second before mine. He stepped out along with two other people. I stepped down like I was about to step out, but then stopped and went backwards up a step, staying on the train. The doors closed.
As the train moved past Kelly's Roast Beef I watched the back of Red Crew-Cut as he walked up Harvard Ave toward Brighton Ave.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Pull yourself together, Kiri. This is silly. You weren't being followed. You couldn't have been followed. Why would anyone want to follow you?
Because of this fucking key in my purse. It's burning a hole in me.
I got off at Griggs Street and began walking back along Comm Ave toward Harvard Ave.
What I should have done is immediately turn the key in to Barbara, telling her the entire story. Confessing all. That would have divorced me from the entire problem. It would be QV Bank's problem, not mine.
But something prevented me from doing that.
And I know too fucking well what it is.
It's the electrical charge I felt when Horace Fucking Willoughby's hand brushed mine when we turned the keys in the wall that first day I met him.
Then again when he clasped my hands in the privacy room. It was like he completely took over my soul when he did that.
God, I sound like an innocent schoolgirl in love with her boyfriend. I'm a grown woman. This is ridiculous. I cannot seriously be having these thoughts. I'm way too jaded for this. Wake the fuck up, Kiri!
But no matter how much I chided myself, the feeling came back. Like a warm blanket, it enveloped me in its seduction. A warm protecting trust. Somehow... I don't know how... I trust H implicitly and completely.
I was at my apartment. I went up. Karen was out, thank God. But she left the apartment a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere. Dirty pots and pans all over the kitchen.
I went to my bedroom and shut the door. I turned on the light. I was about to take off my clothes when I noticed my bed was messed up a little. I smoothed it out. That's strange.
I took my earrings off and put them away. As I did so, I noticed some things had been slightly moved here and there. I'm a very neat person. I know when somebody has been through my stuff.
Karen! What the fuck was she looking for? I'll fucking kill her!
Then my heart stopped and I inhaled sharply.
What if it wasn't Karen? What if it was someone looking for the key?
I opened my purse and took the key out.
Shit, I've got to get rid of this!
I went to bed but couldn't sleep at all that night.
Chapter 5
You can't help but feel smart when you sit in Bates Hall at the Boston Public Library. Rows of green-shaded desk lamps on tables surrounded by ancient volumes and handcrafted busts on Greek columns.
The round ceiling is a work of art, echoing the soft sounds of pages turning, pens clicking, papers shuffling, a
nd soft footsteps as people come and go.
I hadn't been here since working on a senior year thesis. Today I was waiting for Book Delivery to bring me a copy of Death at Sea by Konrad Gregor, published in 1906.
I had done an Internet search and found three books titled Death at Sea. One was a murder mystery. Another was a naval adventure. The third was out-of-print listed as just "Fiction."
Barnes & Noble had the first two. I went to the one on Huntington Ave and flipped through both of them only to find no character named Horace Willoughby. It must be the out-of-print one.
The Boston Public Library had one copy, only available by book delivery. That means it's so precious or special that you can't take it out. You place an order and a library employee will deliver it to you after you wait about 45 minutes in Bates Hall.
When it arrived, I noticed how it looked exactly like the copy H had placed in the safe deposit box. Yep, this is the one. It was truly ancient, with an old brown leather cover with gold-embossed letters.
As I opened it, I swear it was going to fall apart. Gently, I thumbed the pages and there was the name. Horace Willoughby. I turned to the beginning and began reading.
CHAPTER ONE
In the time of Spanish rule, as so had been the prevalent manner for several score, the town of Pinzon—the botanical splendor of the orange gardens deems to the visitor a sense of its ancient heritage—had never been with an eye toward commerce more significant than a coastal way station with a somewhat productive local mining and fishing reputation. The formidable deep-sea masts of the conquistadores that, needing a strong wind to travel, would sit motionless, where a vessel of today's invention forged on clipper lines launches forward by only a slight pick-up gale on her sails, had been kept away from Pinzon by the lush tranquility of its enormous shoreline.
Oh God, this is torture already. Nikki was right.
I wish I had ingested more coffee. Maybe snagged an Adderall. It's going to be a long afternoon. I took my jacket off and settled in.
By the time five o'clock rolled around, I had a headache and my eyes were crossing. I left the book on the table as you're supposed to do, and I walked over to the Pru Mall to grab something to eat.
Death at Sea is a long, complicated story told in a very confusing way. To sum it up, it's about a rich man named Rowland whose stash of gold is swindled from him by con men. Along comes Horace Willoughby, a young and handsome Englishman whose sole mission is to con the con artists and get the gold back for the rich man's daughter Antonia with whom he's fallen in love.
That's it. Six hundred and thirty-one pages to get that story told. Could have been done in under two hundred. And it could have ended better. In the final scene, Horace Willoughby drowns while trying to save the gold.
(Between you and me, I just skimmed it. Not that I could get through 631 pages in four hours, anyway. Just couldn't get into it. Language was too flowery the way they wrote back in those days.)
So what does it mean? Am I supposed to be Antonia? Is H trying to get back gold for me that was stolen from my father? My father never had any gold, trust me. At least not my adoptive father. I have no idea who my biological father was.
So let's say my biological father had gold stolen from him and H is trying to get it back for me. If so, why? Is he in love with me? That's ridiculous. He doesn't even know me.
At the Pru Mall Food Court, I walked up to Pizzeria Regina. I ordered a slice of pizza and a Sprite. I think I made it just in time. My stomach was rumbling.
I sat at one of the tables looking out over the little courtyard next to the Hynes. Spring was in full swing. People were everywhere. I took a bite of my pizza but didn't get to swallow it.
I froze and my heart skipped a beat.
Red Crew-Cut is sitting at a table here in the food court.
I broke into a cold sweat.
There he is. Definitely him. Sitting down facing perpendicular from me at a table across the way, eating something.
Fuck.
The world turned spotty all around me. The big food court seemed to tilt. I put down the slice of pizza in my right hand, then slowly grabbed my jacket and purse while standing up all in one motion.
I kept my eye on Red Crew-Cut as I moved sideways to the nearest exit that opens to the outdoor steps that lead down to Boylston Street.
I made it to the door just as he turned around and saw me. His eyes held mine for a split second. Fear shot through me. Adrenaline pumping now, I backed out the door and ran down the steps past the statue out onto the street.
There were three cabs waiting outside the Hynes. I yanked the back door of one open, leaped in, and threw myself into the seat.
"Davis Square," I said. The cab took off, heading to my brother's apartment in Somerville.
I couldn't go home. I didn't want to be alone.
Chapter 6
"You think you're being followed?" said Dan, his hair all messed up. He wore a rumpled white T-shirt and gym shorts.
"No," I said. "I know I'm being followed! I've seen the same guy three times now. Outside the restaurant that night. On the subway later. And tonight at the Pru Mall Food Court."
"Uh-huh." Dan was a little bleary-eyed. He had been smoking weed, I could tell. "Why would somebody be following you?"
"Because of this!"
I took out the key and held it up. At that moment, Nikki came out of the bedroom wearing a tank top and another pair of gym shorts.
Shit, I didn't know she was here.
"I'm sorry," I said, suddenly embarrassed. I picked up my purse. "I don't mean to intrude on you guys. I'll go. It's just... I just... I mean..."
"It's okay," Nikki said as she put her arm around me. "Put that down and sit."
She took my purse out of my hand and put it on the coffee table. Then she eased me backward onto the love seat behind us.
I felt a genuine warmth from her. It was a good feeling.
"Dan, I'm going to head out," she said. "You and your sister need to talk."
"No," I said as I put my hand on her arm. "Please stay." I meant it. I trust her.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Look, I'm sorry to interrupt you guys. I'm just really upset."
"What is the key?" Dan said.
I told them the entire story. Well, most of it anyway. H. The safe deposit box. The locket. Death at Sea. The money. Red Crew-Cut. The only part I left out were my odd visions of being on a sinking boat.
Oddly, as I talked to them, I felt like I was breaching a trust with H.
Trust? He's a complete stranger. What kind of trust can you have with somebody you don't even know?
And yet I did.
But I'm scared and I need help right now. That's why I have to tell Dan and Nikki all of this.
"Dan, why don't you make us some dinner?" said Nikki.
"Sure," Dan said and turned to the kitchen.
"Can I get you some water?"
"No," I said. "Dan has some Grey Goose, though. I think I want some of that."
A couple of vodka drinks later, I was feeling more relaxed. We ate a delicious stir-fry dinner at Dan's round kitchen table.
As we ate, something struck me about Nikki's shoulders in the tight tank-top. Her collarbone was wide and straight. Her shoulders were dainty, but square. Very small breasts. There was something almost misshapen about her, but not really. Hard to describe. Sexy, though, whatever it is. She caught me staring at her at one point and I took another sip of my drink.
"I hate to have to say this, Kiri," Nikki said, "but I think your Horace Willoughby is a thief."
The piece of chicken I was swallowing stuck in my throat. I sipped some water and it went down. Then I sipped some more Grey Goose.
"A thief?" I said.
"Yes, it's obvious. The hundred-thousand dollars is stolen money. He's hiding it. He thinks you're some sweet vulnerable girl who isn't going to say anything to anybody. He's using his charm on you to trick you into trusting him. He gave you the key so th
at nobody could steal it from him."
"Shit, I hadn't thought of it that way. He's making me an accomplice."
