by Chris Mooney
“What I’m about to tell you—this isn’t me, okay? This isn’t who I am as a person. The stuff that happened . . . I’m still not sure how it happened. It was like . . . The only way I can describe it is like I was possessed or something.”
Sebastian thought about the now late Sixto Ferreria, sweating buckets but looking buff and healthy, as Candice said, “Paul gave me a small transfusion, said that was more than enough.”
“What kind of blood?”
“He didn’t give me a name, just said it was going to change my life.”
“Did you know what was in it?”
“No, I— No, wait. Now I remember. This blood—he said it was some new version of Pandora. Which right away got me excited.”
“That stuff is supposed to be the best.”
“That’s what they say. And when Paul said he’d gotten his hands on this version, I—well, I just believed him.”
“He’s got a supplier?”
“He wouldn’t say, would never get into specifics. But back to your question, no, I didn’t ask what was in it in terms of drugs. He gave it to me at his place—an injection. I thought it was going to be a transfusion, but he said no, this new Pandora was much more powerful. I got a single injection at first, then, as time went on, a series of them.”
He was experimenting on her, Sebastian thought. Trying out different dosages, seeing which one got the maximum benefits.
“The first time was on a Saturday,” Candice said. “That night we went out to a bar and it was . . . All I could think about was Paul. Having him. Right there on the bar, the floor, the bathroom—I didn’t care. And I wasn’t drunk or even buzzed, which I don’t expect you to believe, given what you’re witnessing right now.”
I believe you, Sebastian thought.
“I couldn’t wait to get him home, back to my place,” Candice said. “When we got there . . . I was insatiable. I couldn’t get enough of him. It wasn’t just about the sex, although that was amazing, as much as I hate to admit that. I was somehow, like, super close to him, in a way I’ve never been with anyone before or since. It was like I was seeing into his soul. I know how corny that sounds, but we connected on this really, really deep spiritual level and . . .” She let loose a tittering laugh. “I know I sound like a crazy person.”
“You don’t,” Faye reassured her. “And I appreciate your honesty.”
“Deep down, I knew he was an asshole. He had that smugness about him. But he was a beautiful asshole. A gorgeous asshole with a gorgeous body who made me feel good about myself, made me feel worthy. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Wanting him. I’m talking weeks. He made me chase him, and I did, because that’s what a broken girl like me does. We kept hooking up on and off, and it was great until it wasn’t.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He would supply me with Pandora, but only a little bit here and there.”
Not Pandora, Sebastian corrected her. Pandora doesn’t have those effects. He gave you blood from a pregnant carrier.
“Then Paul would . . . deny me.”
“Because of the side effects?”
“No. Well, I did get some. I started getting nosebleeds, a lot of them, and one time, when it wouldn’t stop, I went to the ER and they said my blood wasn’t clotting properly, and they gave me some meds. That helped, but then I got sick—like a flu on steroids. My immune system was really weak. They thought I had cancer, but it turned out I didn’t.”
In his mind’s eye Sebastian saw the video Maya had shown him of Sixto Ferreria bleeding out, then thought about what Candice Jackson had just shared. She was lucky to still be alive.
“And then Paul stopped giving you this new Pandora product.”
“Well, yes. Eventually. But when I said he denied me, I was talking about, you know, sexually. I would want him in the worst way, and he’d say no. He would make me . . . beg for it. And I would. I did. I begged for him, and later, I begged for the blood, because once you have it—once you have that feeling it gives you—you never want to give it up.” Candice was speaking like someone was standing on her neck. “The way I wanted him—I never wanted another man like that, and it disgusted me, and I couldn’t help myself. And the blood, too. I wanted that blood.”
Sebastian heard the self-loathing in the woman’s voice, Candice having no idea she’d been used as Paul’s personal guinea pig.
“No matter what he did, no matter what he asked me to do, I came back to him—for him,” Candice said. “I still don’t know why I did the things he asked. But it keeps coming back to the blood. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Are we talking illegal things or . . . private matters?”
“Private. Things that turn my stomach. Degrading things.” Her voice cracked, the woman sounding like she was coming apart at the seams. “I became this completely different person after trying that blood the first time. Booze is the only thing that helps.”
Until it doesn’t, Sebastian thought. He felt for the young woman, in more ways than one.
Faye said, “I’m sorry for doing this to you, asking you questions, dredging everything up.”
“Hey, if I can save your life—your sanity—then it’s worth it.”
“You know who I also can’t seem to find? Bradley Guidry.”
“I told you, I never heard of him.”
“Did he hurt you, too? Guidry.”
A few beats of silence followed; Sebastian sensed Candice’s reluctance to get into the details and wished Faye would push a little when Candice said, “I only met him once, but he was . . . he just gave off this creepy vibe.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“No. But if you find him, you’ll find Paul. They’re very close.” Candice said it like there was something more to it.
Faye, fortunately, picked up on that. “Meaning what?”
Candice was quiet for a moment. The woman had provided useful information. Sebastian was glad he’d had Ron put people on her. Still, he made a mental note to call Ron back with this new information, have his people watch Candice more closely. If Paul knew she was back in LA, she could be a threat.
“Screw it,” Candice said. “We’ve come this far. Okay, you want to know? Okay, fine. The last time I saw Paul was at his place. This was on a Friday. I’d been thinking about him all week, begging to see him, and he agreed. He has one of those long, full-length mirrors propped up against the wall across from the foot of his bed. Paul loves mirrors. Likes, you know, doing it in front of one so he can watch and admire himself.”
That sounds like something Paul would do. He had always been proud of his body, the discipline he showed in not only weight training but his meticulous diet. Sebastian could recall numerous times throughout Paul’s adolescence when he’d found Paul lifting weights in either his bedroom or the workout room in the basement, always in front of a mirror.
“We were about to, you know, get into it when Paul said he had a special request.” Candice spoke by rote, without emotion, a lawyer reading words from a contract. “He said he wanted to invite someone to join us. I thought he meant a woman. Not my thing, not at all, but like I said, I wasn’t myself, and anything Paul wanted . . . But it wasn’t another woman Paul wanted. It was Bradley, and I . . .” Candice didn’t finish the thought. Then she said, “Later, at the parties, I said yes to that, too. He . . . well, he, you know, traded me out to certain people. Filmed me doing things.”
“Where were these parties? His place?”
“No. Someplace way north. Ojai, maybe. No, it was Santa Paula. Yeah. This really big house—you know, one of those luxury country-type homes, but sprawling. Place was completely isolated. It had these stunning mountain views, but at night, it was . . . I mean, there was no one around, and you felt, like, totally alone. Trapped.”
Sounds like a perfect spot for Paul to stor
e his carriers, Sebastian thought.
Or my daughter.
He knew he was getting ahead of himself, but still, he wanted Faye to ask Candice for the address. He wanted to take a look at this house, but he couldn’t do that if—
“You have an address?” Faye asked.
Sebastian grinned. Well done.
A beat, and then Candice Jackson said, defensively, “Why are you asking me that?”
Careful, Faye.
Faye sighed. “Now it’s my turn to be truthful with you.” She paused, as if taking a moment to collect herself. “Paul brought me to a few of those types of parties, and it was . . . Okay, I kind of liked it. Got off on it. But I was always really, really drunk, and I can’t remember the places we went.”
Faye was good. Too good, actually. Sebastian thought back to this morning’s conversation at the kitchen table, when he’d confronted her with the photo. The story about her twin brother and her being a carrier—she had delivered it as flawlessly and smoothly as the lie she had just given to Candice.
Faye was clearly good at pretending.
“I don’t remember the parties much, either, just the one I told you about,” Candice said. “Canyon Road, I think, was the address.”
“Oh my God, I think I was there once. Guy owned it, David something.”
“Don’t know his name. Don’t know anyone’s name, really, because no one gave their names. Didn’t see faces, either—everyone wore these creepy, like, Victorian masks. The guy who owned the house, though—I remember Paul saying something about how the guy made his fortune through these gossip-type websites that catered to celebrities.”
“Was Paul tight with this guy?”
Candice thought about it.
“I think so,” she said after a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, probably. Paul told me once how he went to this guy’s place a lot, worked as his private trainer. But I’m not, you know, one hundred percent sure. Like I said, I don’t remember much from that period of time.”
“I don’t remember much, either, truth be told. There were a few times—well, a lot of times, if I’m being honest—that I blacked out. I don’t drink as much anymore. I’ve cut way back and— What?”
“You don’t seem that, you know, broken.”
“Everyone is broken in some way,” Faye said. “Some of us—”
Candice started to sob. Sebastian worked the real estate app on his phone, trying to gather information on the Canyon Road property, a part of him wondering if the guy who owned it could be a backer for Paul. Sebastian figured Paul had to have one—or at least one potential backer. Paul’s whole speech last night about wanting to torture him might have been true, but he knew Paul’s major hard-on pointed in one direction: toward building a blood empire. Sebastian had offered him his own and Paul had said no, which made Sebastian believe someone else was already in play—someone with very deep pockets.
“Hey,” Faye said gently, “it’s okay. I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. What’s so wrong with me?”
Faye didn’t answer—didn’t need to, Candice’s question being rhetorical. Sebastian heard Faye quietly say, “Hey,” and then she made a soothing, shushing sound, like she was trying to calm a colicky baby instead of a woman questioning her sanity. “It’s okay,” Faye said, and Sebastian pictured her sitting next to Candice, a hand on the woman’s shoulder, maybe even rubbing her back and shooing away onlookers while Candice Jackson wailed. It was the howl of the damned—the same sound his mother had made after hearing the judge’s verdict—and the sad, painful reality was that no amount or combination of soothing words or therapy or booze or drugs would ever be able to fully take away that mental anguish. Only death could.
CHAPTER 43
SEBASTIAN WAS LEAVING a detailed message for Ron, highlighting the important aspects of Faye’s conversation with Candice Jackson and explaining their next steps, when he saw Faye come out of the hotel’s revolving doors, looking around like Paul or one of his boys was going to pop out of a car and start shooting.
He slid out of his spot. She saw the Jaguar coming her way and hustled toward it.
“You hear everything?” she asked when they were moving.
“Every single word,” Sebastian said.
“She’s really—”
“Yeah, Paul did quite a number on her.”
“Paul?” Faye whipped her head to him, Sebastian seeing the color flaring in her cheeks. “It’s your blood that caused that. And now that shit’s running through my veins.”
“Paul didn’t give her Pandora.”
“Then what did he give her?”
Sebastian hadn’t shared Paul’s sick grand plan with anyone except Frank, wanted to keep that nightmare locked down tight.
Faye said, “It has something to do with female carriers, doesn’t it?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From Anton. That day he met Paul. On the way home Anton told me Paul needed female carriers—the younger, the better. What makes their blood so special?”
“Look, you—”
“Either he does something to it, enhances it in some way, or it has something to do with female reproduction. Which is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
Sebastian turned his head and shot her a glare, one that made it clear it would be in her best interest to shut up.
Faye ignored him. “I’m putting my life on the line for you, in more ways than one,” she said. “I’ve got a right to know what you did to me.”
“I promise you, as God is my witness, that what happened to Candice Jackson will not happen to you. Pandora is one hundred percent pure. Untainted. No blood expanders or fillers or any other chemicals. Why do you think my product is in such high demand? You think I’d keep getting repeat customers and have a waiting list a mile long if I scrambled people’s brains, made them do degrading shit to themselves? You think that’s the type of business I’m operating here? Blowing up people’s lives?”
“What, you have ethics?”
“I’m nothing like the Armenians or Mexicans.”
“What makes Pandora so unique? So special?”
“Kindness,” he replied. “And clean living.”
She glared at him, incredulous, her gaze roving over his face.
It was true, what he’d said. Kindness and clean living were the final part of his secret recipe, what made Pandora so different, and in such high demand. He had figured it out early on, when he and Frank had started, by reading studies on cattle, how they experienced high levels of stress from overcrowding and the fear they experienced on their way to being slaughtered—the stress hormones changed the taste of the meat.
The same principle held true for carriers. Stress hormones affected blood, and in order for him to harvest the most efficient blood, to maximize its potency, his donors had to be in peak physical and mental shape. That meant clean eating, rigorous exercise, things like meditation and being treated like a human being, a partner, not being locked up inside some cage in the dark like a veal calf.
“If you’re not going to level with me—” Faye began.
“I am leveling with you.”
Faye looked straight ahead, out the windshield. “Did anything Candice say mean anything to you? Help you in any way?”
Sebastian nodded. “That thing she said about the house in Santa Paula, the owner—his name isn’t David. It’s Wayne Dixon. Met him a couple of times, almost did some business together. Idea of him hosting private sex parties doesn’t surprise me—the old prick always struck me as a perv. It all makes sense now.”
“I’m not following.”
“Paul wanted money from me in the beginning, to get started. You need a lot—tens of millions—to start a blood operation, do it right. Stay protected. Last nigh
t, he had no interest in money, which tells me he’s managed to get an investor, someone with really deep pockets. You did good work back there. Really good work.”
“What’s the plan now?”
Good question, Sebastian thought. In a situation like this, normally he’d have Ron getting to work on bugging Dixon’s house, phones, and cars, his place of business. As they waited for Paul to call, Ron would put together a small army to stake out Dixon, see where he went, who he talked to, everything.
But that kind of operation took time, and with Grace in the equation, Sebastian didn’t have time. “I’ll talk it over with Ron, best way to handle this. I left him a message, told him to meet us at the house.”
His phone rang. Not the one he was carrying, but the new burner he had given Ava the number for. It didn’t have Bluetooth, so the car’s communication system ignored it, thank God. He wanted to talk to Ava privately—or in as much privacy as possible.
“The kidnapper,” Ava began, her voice low, almost a whisper. “He reached out this morning, around four. He said to watch out for something special in my mail.”
Mail. The word triggered a memory from yesterday’s conversation. Why give up Ava’s little girl when I can do so many wonderfully creative things with her? Paul had said. Like, say, drop a finger every now and then in the mail to her mommy. Or you. Do you think Grace could hold her baby without any fingers?
His blood ran cold and his breath seized in his throat and the road in front of him turned hazy. “Did he say why? The kidnapper.”
“No. He called, said to watch out for something special in my mail, and hung up.”
Sebastian struggled to speak. “My money guy—he’s going to reach out to you this morning. I talked to him yesterday, got everything set up.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, but I have to go. The police don’t know I’m making this call, and I don’t want them to, you know, start asking questions.”
He wanted to be there with her. It was stupid and foolish, and he knew he couldn’t do it, and yet he still wanted to ask, wanted her to know she was in his thoughts, always had been, even after all this time.
