PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Syd continues. “The story of Solomon says he bonded with some jinn and used them to build his temple. I've always wondered how the jinn felt about that. I mean, if you read back through the literature, the jinn were not demons. They were just . . . different . . . than us. Some good, some bad.

  “It's like they were being enslaved. I mean, that's what it is, right? If you discard the fact they aren't human. Isn't this slavery?”

  I shrug, but the sadness on her face annoys me. Whether she realizes it or not, she's pitying me. If anyone has earned being pitied, it's all the jinn before me. Their chance at ever finding happiness has already ended. They were forced to turn over their child to the genie bond. They served and then were forgotten.

  Relatively speaking, I'm just getting started.

  “I guess they don't know any different,” I say, because I have to reply with something.

  “That doesn't make it right, Dim.” She frowns.

  I frown too. I would like to ask her more questions, not just to see what she knows, but also to see what I don't. I might give myself away, though. It's a long shot she would connect the dots that show I'm Karl's jinn, but Syd is smart. I can't risk it.

  So I don't speak. Instead, I dwell on how many ways this could have gone better. Then I realize Syd is sitting on my couch.

  The resentment fades a little.

  “If he does have a jinn, there's not much you can do about it, Syd.”

  She seems thoughtful, then nods.

  “That's true.” She sighs, pushing off from the couch, and plucks up her purse. “I should get going.”

  I bolt to my feet. “Wait a sec, you could—Want some wine?”

  She gives me a sad little half-smile. “No wine, Dim.”

  “But, I thought you didn't care about the apple?” Panic takes my chest hostage. “I thought you said it was just because of the classes?”

  Her gaze me crawls up and down. “The metaphorical bullshit was wrong. I was wrong to do that to you. But this . . . We let it get out of hand. It was supposed to be one night.”

  “I missed you,” I say, throat tight. “I thought of you every time I had to leave.”

  “I know,” she says, and I can tell by her tone that she believes me. Still, somehow, it's not enough. “But in reality, I'm going back to school in the fall. Between that and Uncle Larry, and your schedule . . . and then I might have to transfer out. It's not going to work, Dim.”

  I want to argue that it could work. We would find time. Other couples do the long-distant thing. I would figure out how to handle the situation. I always do.

  But there are other issues, ones she doesn't even know about yet. Like that our future will never improve. This drudgery is all we will ever have.

  Every single aspect of my existence in Syd's life is going to cause her pain.

  Still, I have to know her intentions. I need to hear it from her, or I will never believe it.

  I can barely get the words out. “Syd . . . are you ever coming back?”

  She glances over her shoulder at me. “No. I'm sorry.”

  I want to cross the room and pull her close. Kiss her mouth until her body sinks against mine. Undress her as we head to the bedroom, even if all we do is just lie together.

  There are so many things I want to say and do, but it would be selfish of me to act on any of them.

  So I let her go.

  ***

  I wake in the middle of the night because a semi-truck is idling outside my bedroom window. Except it's not outside. It's in my brain.

  I roll over to the edge of my mattress and hang my head off the side. Like that will help.

  The hum revs up. I sit, disoriented. My eyes burn, but from inside my skull. I might have a fever. I can't really tell anything, because the hum is hindering my ability to rationalize.

  I don't realize I'm even standing or walking until I stumble into the living room chair. Not a clue where I'm going. But through the humming trapped in my skull, I recall what happened the first—and last—time I tried to spare someone's life. It didn't end well.

  Stomach acid is already burning my throat. While standing beside the fridge, I down a bottle of water. I vomit in the sink so quickly the water is still cold coming back up. My arms brace against the counter, and I lay my head on them and close my eyes.

  The hum intensifies. So I straighten, and the hum deepens again. Even breathing makes it worse.

  My sight blurs as I stumble back into the living room.

  Then I'm loading up my jacket, slipping on my shoes. My stomach clenches in dry heaves.

  “I'm doing it,” I whisper, though the words scrape at my brain.

  I'm in the Accord, heading down the road, before the hum clears enough for me to remember I don't want to kill Mark. Then the hum revs. Just for a moment. A warning.

  I cringe, swerving between lanes. “Okay, got it. Kill Mark.”

  The hum backs off because it knows I'm going to do it. It knew I would all along, so it has been biding its time. Bastard.

  The previous plan returns to me. I can't break in because of the neighbors. Befriending him backfired. My only remaining option is to knock, kick, kill.

  I just have to be sure the little metal-head isn't there. If the hum starts badgering again, I will shoot him, regardless of witnesses. But for the moment, I have a weak grip on sanity. I have to use that to my advantage. To his daughter's advantage.

  I call him. He answers on the third ring.

  It's not difficult for me to sound sick.

  “Hey, Mark, sorry for calling so late.” I pause, trying to hear if the kid is in the background. Maybe she's with her mother tonight. “I need to fill a prescription, but everywhere seems to be closed. Do you know any twenty-four hour pharmacies?”

  Mark hesitates. I know what he's thinking: use the goddamn Internet.

  But Mark is nice. Mark is helpful. Mark is falling into my trap like many before him.

  He says, “Yeah, of course. There's one about a block from my condo. I can text you the address.”

  Just as I think I'm in the clear, a voice rings out in the background: “Daddy! Can I have Popsicle?”

  Shit.

  Mark sounds distant, moving the phone away.

  “No, honey. You're going to bed in five minutes.” Then he returns to our conversation. “Okay, I'll text you the address. Anything else?”

  “No,” I say, numbly. “That's all. Thanks.”

  I hang up the phone. Maybe the hum will give me a few hours of reprieve because I tried. As if to remind me it's listening and not amused, the hum speeds up. I cringe until it evens out again.

  Time to think fast. The kid is with Mark. I will need to break in, gag and shackle Mark without the kid hearing us, and then take her to her mother's pharmacy—whose address is now in my text messages. Mark had said his girlfriend worked overnight at a nearby pharmacy. Her location would be the first one to come to mind when asked.

  Once I drop the kid off there, I will return to the condo to end Mark . . . and the hum.

  The fact I already know so many things about this small family and have conjured a plan to fit my needs is disturbing. But it's what I do.

  The hum would make Mother Teresa pop a bullet into the Pope's brain.

  I park a block away from Mark's condo, verify the guns are in my pocket, and set out down the sidewalk. The neighborhood is dark, lit by only a few porch lights and a couple of street lamps. The world is quiet. Across the street, a woman is walking a small dog. She doesn't seem to notice me.

  I take the stairs. I'm going to do this right this time. I'm going to kill Mark.

  I reach the fourth floor and round the balcony. My heart stops, followed by my feet. A door is ajar. Mark's door.

  I swallow hard and creep closer, placing my right hand on the gun in my pocket.

  Maybe he's enjoying the summer night air. Even I don't believe that, though. Something feels amiss.

  I'm somehow terrified and completely in control
at the same time. Without hesitation, I slide through the open door, ready to kick it close and have my gun at Mark's temple.

  Mark is lying on the living room floor. His head is turned away from me, but the carpet around him is black. A strange instrument is jutting from his neck.

  I draw my gun and take a quick scan of the room, expecting the other killer to be lurking nearby. The room is empty. I tune my hearing toward the back rooms as I inch closer to Mark.

  The instrument seems to be stone, oblong with spikes sticking out from the sides.

  I head for the hallway, doing big sweeps of each room, but I find nothing. Not even the kid.

  The house is silent.

  I stand in the living room, turning in a slow circle. The room must contain a clue, but I don't find any. All I know is the hum is gone, Mark is dead, and I didn't do it.

  Chapter 10

  I stand at my bathroom sink, staring into the mirror. My eyes are dark and sunken. I can't remember the last time I slept without the hum or the incessant subconscious reminder that Syd is gone.

  Not all that long ago, I had this life down. It wasn't a great existence, but it worked. I made up stories to justify the murders, but now I can't believe them. I had a system for picking up temporary female companionship. Now all I want is Syd, but she is done with me.

  I used to believe I could somehow live independently of the Walkers if given a chance, but now I know my life is dependent on them. I used to believe I had some outline of a normal life, even if the details were a bit skewed.

  Now, I know I'm not even human.

  I am the Walkers' jinn, one in a long line of many before and many to come. Everything else is just a game to see how long I can keep my sanity.

  I am losing.

  I glance at the gun on the vanity counter. Even the notion that I could stick the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger causes the dagger of disobedience to jab in my skull. Hard. My fingers grip the bathroom sink until the pain recedes.

  I tried this escape already, anyway. Right before my first kill. Before I had even lifted the gun to my head, I was on the floor, convulsing. The gun had slipped from my grasp, and I didn't have the dexterity or strength to pick it back up until I knew I wouldn't harm myself.

  Pounding echoes on the front door.

  I sigh and head down the hallway, toward the living room.

  The pounding increases.

  I open the door.

  Syd is before me, her eyes red.

  “Where the fuck did you get this, Dimitri?” She holds up something, but I can't tell what it is. “I found it in your car! Where did you get it?”

  “What were you doing in my car?” I scowl, trying to recall if I had locked it before coming inside. I have been in a stupor since the drive home from Mark's condo.

  Syd storms through the doorway, like she's going to bust out a gun and do her own version of knock, kick, kill.

  “You work for Karl Walker.” Her tone is angry and accusatory. “Is that who you protect?”

  “Yeah,” I say, still not quite sure what is happening. My brain is not all there right now.

  Then I realize she's holding a small stuffed bunny.

  She shakes the toy at me. “Where the hell is Zoe?”

  I stare at her, dumbly.

  “Zoe is my little sister.” Her voice—and face—cracks into the flood of emotion dammed up since the day we met. She flips the rabbit over to reveal a name in marker on the underside. “This is my handwriting, Dim. What happened to her?”

  I can't respond, because I never know what happens to my prisoners. But now I understand why Syd hadn't left to Italy with her grandmother. She has a younger sister.

  Syd screams at me. I can't make out the words. My brain is struggling to understand how I managed to kidnap Syd's sister. Why did Karl want her? He must know Larry is onto him.

  This whole situation has slipped through my fingers, and I can't seem to catch it.

  “Fuck you, Dimitri.” Syd leaves, slamming the door behind her.

  I stand with my back against the wall, trying to think. Larry knows Karl has a jinn. Syd works with Larry, but she doesn't know everything they're looking for is right here. It's me.

  How would she feel knowing all those nights had been spent with a creature from folklore depicted thousands of years ago?

  And that's all I am. A creature. I lived among humans, watched them, participated with them in my own way. I was always different, but I thought it was circumstantial. I thought that, fundamentally, I was like them. But I'm not.

  This is why Doctor Patricia Kerr was paid off for my DNA. Why Karl went to such extremes to conceal it.

  I have to protect Karl. Protect Silvia. Before, I just wasn't allowed to kill them. Now I have to keep them alive. Something tells me if they die before me, that fail switch will make my death long and drawn out. That's how this curse works. It screws with me every step of the way.

  I need to tell Karl what has happened. I just don't know how. I can't tell him about Syd, or that I met Patricia. Or that I waited so long to kill Mark that someone else got to him first.

  How am I supposed to let him know they're gaining on us without admitting what I've done?

  Car doors slam outside. I tilt my head and listen.

  Sirens.

  I cross to the door and pull it open. The sirens grow louder. Approaching.

  Syd reported me.

  Panic floods through me, driving my actions, yet I don't really feel it. Like it doesn't reach my brain. I grab my jacket, verify the guns and ammo are still in the pockets, and head outside. I don't bother to lock the door behind me.

  Two cop cars swing into the street outside my front yard. The officers start to unload. I'm behind the steering wheel of the Accord. The engine turns over. I pull out, barely missing one of the Crown Victorias. The officers shout something I don't catch. I turn my car and take off.

  Lights flash behind me. Sirens kick on. I glance in the rear view mirror, expecting to see one or two police cars behind me. There are too many to count.

  I stomp the gas pedal.

  Just like that, I'm in a high speed chase.

  The speedometer creeps toward sixty miles per hour. I turn out of the residential street and onto the main road. Traffic is sparse. I can do this.

  I lock my gaze out the windshield, ignoring the urge to look behind at the pursuing cops. I know they're there. The sirens are steady.

  The truck ahead of me doesn't see me coming. I swerve around it and back into the lane. The light is yellow, so I accelerate and breeze through it.

  I think I have a destination in mind. My brain is too focused on not getting jiggy with the vehicles around me to acknowledge it though.

  Seventy-five miles per hour.

  A woman is crossing the street. Jay walker. I arc around her, nearly swipe an SUV, and then swing back into my lane.

  The on-ramp is coming up. If I miss it, I'm screwed. I don't have the capacity to reroute my path right now. Not while maintaining eighty miles an hour.

  As I approach, a Volkswagen trudging along changes into my lane. A goddamn Beetle is preventing my escape.

  I honk the horn. The bastard doesn't seem to realize there's a damn chase happening around him. He doesn't accelerate or slow down or move out of my freakin' path.

  I say, “Slug bug red!” and skid my car in front of him and onto the ramp, then punch it.

  My car is pushing one hundred now. At this rate, I will be through the desert in about an hour. I can't imagine driving like a madman for that long, but at the same time, I can't imagine stopping either.

  To make matters worse, I have to figure out a way to ditch the police at some point. Not a clue how that subterfuge is going to pan out.

  Freeway traffic is moderate. Not enough vehicles to force me to slow down, but too many for me to stay in one lane. So begins a skewed version of Frogger.

  I slide between cars, one after the other, somehow not even clipping them. I can't b
elieve I have this much control over the Accord.

  A killer's hand is a steady hand.

  The speedometer climbs to one-hundred and ten.

  Who needs a damn Pagani? The Accord might as well be an F1 at this point.

  A helicopter thuds overhead.

  Well, shit. Now I have to ditch a gaggle of police cars and a chopper. Probably at least two or three, since both the police and the news will be in on this.

  One-hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  Somehow, I don't feel any sort of rush from the speed at all. Maybe because my brain is still not processing anything except when to move over and when to move back.

  I join onto the I-10, westbound, riding through the gore point. The police cars hold back. It's just me and the helicopter. The damn bird moves effortlessly to keep up.

  Yep, I'm probably on the news. Karl is going to be pissed.

  One-hundred and twenty-five.

  I could be a goddamn jet pilot.

  Up ahead, a semi-truck. I swing around him, only to find another.

  Arizona, land of the semis. This will be interesting.

  I find my rhythm. Swing out, speed up, swing in, speed up. It's almost better than sex. Almost.

  Traffic builds. Don't these people know a lunatic is on the road? Turn on the damn news.

  With that, I flip on my radio. Nine Inch Nails.

  I crank it. Madness always needs a soundtrack.

  The city gives way to desert, and traffic thins. Hallelujah. The bird is still above me, but screw him. Screw everyone. Maybe I won't stop until I reach San Diego, then do it Thelma and Louise style right over the edge of a cliff.

  Glorious.

  The dagger of disobedience stabs my brain.

  Fine, I won't test gravity, but I'm not stopping anytime soon. I still have more than a half a tank of gas, and I'm not even tired yet.

  Let's do this.

  I race the car down the open desert of I-10, the shadow of a helicopter above and industrial music pounding around me.

  Life is pretty much awesome.

  Traffic picks up again. I do my thing to get around them, but I'm forced to drop back to one-hundred. I swerve from lane to lane. The squeeze becomes tighter, even for my little car. I jump onto the shoulder and slam to one-hundred and thirty.