by R. T. Lowe
Allison squinched up her nose and gripped Felix’s arm with both hands, giving it a firm squeeze. Her eyes flitted all around. “I’m really glad you’re here. I didn’t expect it to be so bad. Did you see that van turn at the corner?” He had, and it made him think they might be in tomorrow’s Oregonian as victims of a random drive-by. “Anyway, do you really wanna know about Harper?”
He shrugged like he didn’t care one way or the other. He did care, but he was thinking about something else—wishing Allison would change her mind about the skis and they could go back to the dorm. If they turned back now, Lucas (and Harper) might still be in the cafeteria.
“Well, according to Caitlin, Harper’s got some, well… serious guy issues. Even when she was like a freshman in high school, she was dating this older guy. And I guess she was kinda obsessed with him and freaked out when he broke up with her. And the same thing happened with another guy a couple years later. Caitlin said she’s a little high strung. You know, high maintenance and… emotional about things. So she exhausts her boyfriends and the relationships end badly. So now, she doesn’t trust guys and thinks they’re all assholes. Basically, she has trust issues and—hey! I think that’s it. The white one.” Allison was pointing at something across the street; the dying shell of a squat cottage-style house that looked like a mild autumn gale would flatten and scatter the grimy remains down the desolate street like tumbleweeds in a ghost town. “One eighty-seven, right?”
Felix felt a chill race up his back. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
They looked in both directions before crossing the street (not necessary—there were no cars here) and Felix went over to a dinged-up mailbox with a missing front flap to check the peeling reflective numbers on the side. He peered inside just for the hell of it. No mail. “Yeah, one eighty-seven.” He turned back to the house. The windows weren’t blocked up, but the curtains were drawn. There was no car in the driveway. “This place is a dump. You sure this is the right address?”
“Yep.” She waited on the sidewalk, looking all around at the empty street. “She said one eighty-seven sixteenth street. Martha could use a little help with the front yard. You could get lost in there.”
“Something did.” He pointed at a handlebar with glittery pink tassels rising forlornly above the tall weeds. “Is that a bike? Tricycle, maybe?”
“Shit,” Allison whispered. “What’s wrong with this place?”
Whatever it was, Felix felt it too, and the sense of apprehension was sitting heavily in his gut and keeping his heart from beating at its ordinary pace. He shook it off and clapped his hands together with more enthusiasm than he actually felt. This will only take a minute, he told himself. Let’s just get the skis and get the hell back to campus.
“Ready to get your forty-dollar skis?” Felix asked with a smile, joining Allison on the sidewalk.
“Thirty-nine dollars,” she replied stiffly. “She better have change or I’m gonna kick her ass.”
They went up the crumbling concrete walkway and stopped at the door. It was slathered in bright red paint that had run down in streaks and congealed in little glue-like balls at the bottom. Allison raised a fist as if she was about to knock, then she held it there uncertainly for a moment and brought it back down. An apprehensive look passed between them. He felt awkward, like he was going door-to-door selling something to raise money for a school event. Allison pointed at the doorbell. Felix nodded. She gave him a little frown and pushed it. They waited. She pushed it again.
“I don’t hear anything.” Felix cocked an ear close to the door and listened. “Maybe it doesn’t work.” He rapped on it with his knuckles. A dog barked in the distance. Probably a pit bull, Felix thought grimly, being trained to eat other pit bulls. They waited some more. “I don’t think anyone lives here.” He knocked again. This time harder. The door quaked. “Do you have the number? You should call—”
“Hello?” a woman’s voice called out from inside the house.
Felix jumped back. So did Allison.
“Hello. It’s Allison.” She looked at the door for a moment as if she thought it was going to open. When it didn’t, she glanced at Felix and tilted her head, confused. “We spoke on the phone about the skis. Are you Martha?”
“Hello, Allison,” the woman said. She had an accent.
Martha sounded younger than Felix had expected. Maybe it was the name. Martha was an old person’s name. His grandma used to play bingo at the Elks club with a Martha, and she had to be at least ninety.
“Yes, I’m Martha,” the woman continued. “You and your friend can come around back. The skis are on the deck. The gate is unlocked. Do you have the agreed upon payment?”
Allison mouthed the words agreed upon payment, shaking her head, perplexed. “You mean the money? Yeah, I have thirty-nine dollars. What we talked about.”
“Excellent,” Martha said. “I’ll meet you in back.”
“What kind of accent was that?” Felix asked, trailing behind Allison as they high-stepped their way through thick snarls of weeds. “Middle Eastern or something?”
“French… I think.”
The latch on the chain link gate had broken off. Allison gave it a nudge and it swung open with a little squawk. They stepped through and started toward the back of the house.
“Hey Allie—how’d she know I was with you, anyway? She said ‘you and your friend’, right? I didn’t see a peephole, did you?”
Allison stared straight ahead, mouth tight, plodding through the vegetation.
Felix’s skin was crawling. Something didn’t feel right. He swept the backyard with his eyes as they waded through the weeds and blackberry vines that had overrun the property, the prickly barbs nipping at their bare legs. He’d mowed a lot of lawns back home. Thousands. Enough to consider himself an expert on the subject. And this one hadn’t been cut in a long time, maybe all summer. The house, the lawn—the whole property—felt unused, abandoned.
“Maybe she saw us through the window?” Allison responded after a while, then pointed off to her right. “Okay, that’s a deck”—she tilted her head curiously and frowned—“I think.”
At first, Felix didn’t see the ravaged, weather-decayed unstained boards roughly configured in the shape of a square. Giant green-tentacled weeds had sprouted up through cracks in the wood, covering it up like an ancient ruin lost to the invading jungle. The deck was accessible through a sliding glass door, but the blinds were drawn, and the windows (just three) were all boarded up. There was nothing on the deck: no skis, or anything else, other than an ant swarm attempting to devour a butterfly drunkenly flapping its half-eaten wings.
“Where are they?” Allison’s eyes flitted all around the yard. “You think she’s bringing them out? That’s what she said, right?”
Felix was trying to come up with a good reason for why Martha had boarded up the windows in back but not in front. He couldn’t, and it didn’t matter anyway. He’d seen enough. He didn’t need Peter Parker’s spider sense to know something weird was going on. “We should get outta here. I don’t think anyone lives here. I don’t know what Martha’s up to—but I don’t like it.”
“What about the skis?” Allison snapped, her cheeks flushed. She was annoyed and moving quickly toward angry. “We came all the way out to this shithole. I don’t care if she’s a crack whore. I’m not leaving without my goddamn skis. Hey Martha!” she called out, starting toward the door in a rush. “Where are the skis? Hey!”
“C’mon, Allie. Let’s go.”
She ignored him and jumped onto the deck, shouting at Martha to come out.
“Shit.” Felix stood there for a moment, wondering what he should do. He sighed, and decided he had to follow after her.
He heard himself groan. Then he couldn’t breathe. He felt nothing initially. He simply couldn’t breathe. Then the pain arrived: an intolerable seizing pressure that started at his throat and burned all the way up to his scalp. His brain fired off scattered images—a blindfolde
d hand-tied prisoner falling through a trap door with a noose around his neck; a Mafioso sitting in the passenger seat of a car flailing madly as he was strangled with a piano wire. Felix scratched at his throat. He felt something. It was smooth and thin, like wire or plastic cable. And it was constricting his windpipe, crushing it. He slipped one finger, and then two, under the wire, and managed to suck in a quick shallow breath.
Now that he could breathe again, he realized there was pressure on the tops of his shoulders. And noises behind him—grunting noises. It sounded like a woman. Whoever it was—Martha?—wasn’t screwing around. She was strong. And she was yanking on the wire, pulling it so hard only the tips of his flip flops were touching the ground.
He slithered a third finger under the wire and took a gasping breath, his heart hammering away in his temples. He reached back with his free hand and stabbed at the space behind his head. His fingers brushed against something hard. He clawed at it and felt something else—a wisp of hair. He curled his fingers around a tendril and squeezed fiercely, digging his fingernails into his palms. Then he pulled on it. The angle was awkward, but he still managed to get a good tug on it. He heard a little yelp—a woman’s yelp. Acting on instinct, he took in a deep breath, let go of the wire and twisted his body around, fumbling blindly until he secured another handful of hair in his fist. With both hands clutching Martha’s hair in a death grip, he wrenched her head forward, and then, with all his strength, he launched himself toward the weeds, leading with her face, driving it straight into the ground.
She let out a muffled scream.
The cord around his neck loosened.
Felix drew in a heaving breath, then lifted his head and raked his hands through the bramble, clawing and scrabbling to his feet.
So did his assailant.
Martha was facing him. She was tall and lean with long red hair and a jagged scar on her cheek. Her nose was gushing blood. The dark red liquid streamed down her mouth and chin. Her expression was placid, but her eyes were bright and searching. With the back of her left hand, she slowly wiped the blood off her upper lip. From her right hand, a loop of silver wire descended to her knees, standing out vividly against her dark pants. It looked just like the one he’d seen in the mafia flick.
Felix took a step back. Martha took a step forward. Then he remembered Allison. He stole a panicky glance at the deck. She wasn’t there. His eyes shifted back to the woman and he found her eyes fixed on his. Her jaw hardened. Her lips were pressed together in a firm line. She took a hard jab-step to his left.
He sidestepped to his right, wondering if Allison had gone inside the house, risking another glance in that direction. The pain in his throat was buried for the moment in an avalanche of adrenaline.
She did it again.
He reacted the same way and shuffled to his right.
The third time she jab-stepped to his left, he knew it had to be some kind of strategy. But what was she trying to do? He wasn’t going to let her get behind him. Her piano-wire-weapon was useless as long as he kept her in front of him.
She kicked at his left knee, but she was too far away. It had no chance of connecting.
He moved to his right anyway.
Something in his head (intuition? a warning alarm?) was telling him she was setting him up—that she was playing him like a musical instrument. Her eyes were clear and focused. He didn’t detect any craziness in those eyes. Or any emotion. She was no crack whore trying to steal his money and Allison’s plastic watch. And she moved like an athlete: strong, fluid and graceful. If this was a movie, then this woman would be a professional assassin—a contract killer. His back was now turned to the house and the gate leading to the street.
The woman stopped her jab-stepping and kicking. She stopped circling him like a tiger stalking its prey. She stood motionless. The faintest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. Felix paused, thinking that something was about to happen—something bad. The air felt thick and heavy. The breeze out of the west died out. Then three words flashed through his mind: She’s not alone. He turned. But it was already too late.
There was a blur of movement, a head of dark hair rushing at him at enormous speed, chin tucked down so that no face was visible. Felix began to raise his arms to protect himself. That was when the impact occurred. The crown of the head crashed into Felix’s sternum, knocking him off his feet and driving him backward.
Felix landed on his back, and the ground felt… different. Not as hard as before, almost as though something had cushioned his fall. Then his throat shrieked. The air was gone again. The pain had returned. He dug at his throat, trying to wriggle a finger under the wire. But it was pulled tight, slicing into the delicate skin, and the penetrated flesh covered it over, allowing nothing to get beneath it. He felt warmth on his ear and heard the sounds of soft moaning. Just as he realized that the woman was under him—and strangling him with the wire—he saw a pair of black boots rise up from either side of his waist. Then they crossed and laced together, and her long sinewy legs began to squeeze him like an anaconda. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He felt the pressure building behind his eyes. His heart was jackhammering against his rib cage. He continued to claw at his throat. But now he was just flailing. Now it was pointless.
Someone stepped into his field of vision, which was graying at the edges. They knelt down in the weeds and gripped Felix by the wrists, pressing down with their weight, holding down his arms. Felix saw a face—a man’s face. A man with dark hair.
Felix struggled, fighting to free his arms, but he couldn’t make them work. The man was too powerful. And Felix’s strength was seeping away. He looked up at the blue-gray sky and watched a pink-tinted cloud pinwheeling idly toward campus. The man crouched over Felix and stared down at him, blocking out his view of a deepening late summer sky. Felix gazed into eyes devoid of life, and as dark as crude oil.
The man smiled, then let go of his wrists.
Felix didn’t have the strength to lift his arms; it was like they were heavier than the weight of the earth. He was completely helpless, too weak to fight back. Too weak to even try. The woman’s hot breath whispered across his ear. He felt her heart pounding against his back.
The man swung a leg over his stomach and straddled him. He sat there for a moment, mounting Felix, then reached behind his back and brought out a knife that was long and silver and shaped like a crescent moon.
“Do it!” the woman hissed in Felix’s ear. “Kill this monster!”
The man smiled again, then raised the weapon high above his head, clutching it with both hands like an Aztec priest performing a human sacrifice.
Felix stared up at the sharp point of the knife—the knife that was going to pierce his heart. He was about to die. He knew it. He felt it. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Maybe I’ll see mom and dad, he thought. And then: I hope Allison got away. He closed his eyes.
He heard someone scream. It sounded close. A woman? Allison? His body felt lighter. Air—sweet, sweet air—filled his lungs. Another scream—this one far away. More noises. Loud wrenching noises—earth-shaking noises. The sounds of struggle. Voices. Several voices. Shouting. Then there were footsteps. Footsteps all around him. He felt hands on his face, his neck, all over. The voices were fainter now, growing more distant with each passing second, a thousand miles away.
He opened his eyes. He saw a tunnel, a single beam of bright white light. Slowly, it closed in on itself until there was nothing but a charcoal canvas and then, total darkness.
Chapter 11
Blue Toro
The paparazzi were gathering en masse outside the restaurant. Dirk had made sure of that. A few anonymously placed calls had started the ball rolling. And by the time he showed up at ten in his gaudiest ride—a yellow Lamborghini—word had spread, and now every celebrity-watcher and opportunistic tourist in the city was waiting for him. As he climbed out of the car, their cameras flashed, and when two models in seven-inch Louboutins emerge
d from the passenger seat, they went crazy.
A handsome maître d’ with impeccable hair and a Spanish accent escorted them through the bar to the dining room, where the white linen table coverings were crisply starched, the silver polished and gleaming, and the candles flickered in crystal dishes. The restaurant—Blue Toro—had become the flavor du jour of the Hollywood establishment ever since its celebrity chef owner had opened it two years ago. The menu was fusion, and so was the ambiance—old Hollywood glamour fusing with modern day adrenaline. A place where normal people couldn’t get reservations, and celebrities pulled strings and rank to get the best times and tables. The kind of place where Dirk Rathman wouldn’t be caught dead. Normally.
The waiter brought him a bottle of Macallan’s 55-year-old single malt and three glasses. His dinner companions were models. And aspiring actresses. Perfect bodies. Perfect faces. Clichés. Just like so many others in this town. But tonight they were props. His props. When you were trying to make a statement, entering a room with a pair of six-foot blonde models wearing ridiculous shoes (and little else) was a good place to start. The women—Iliana and Audrey—loved the attention. Being seen and photographed with one of the most recognizable faces in the world could jump-start their careers. They were using him as much as he was using them. Dirk didn’t feel bad for what was about to happen—not for them, anyway.
Dirk sipped his bourbon and looked out at the patrons staring back at him. A few waved, cautiously. He ignored them. They had every reason to stare. Dirk hadn’t been out in public like this in years, and many people thought he avoided the spotlight like it was a cancer-causing agent. There was some truth to that. If he did go out—which was rare—he went to venues where he had a connection with the owner; places with private back rooms and private entrances where they whisked him in and out without anyone knowing he’d ever been there. But there was more to their surprised looks than simply spotting a reclusive celebrity having dinner at the trendiest restaurant in town. There was the matter of his arrest two days ago. By now, everyone was aware that the police had busted down a hotel door to find him in bed with two women (along with a mountain of heroin in the room). Then yesterday afternoon, most of the country had watched live coverage of Dirk in a thong hitting tennis balls from the roof of his beachfront mansion. Then they watched as he somersaulted from the roof onto a fortuitously placed awning and into a hedge. Considering all that, Blue Toro was the last place on earth they expected to see him.
