by Trisha Wolfe
“That’s not really any of your concern,” I say, and start again to stand.
“Hear me out.” His wide eyes implore me to listen. “I have a mandatory week of vacation time, and I know I’m going to lose my mind just sitting around my apartment. Let me make last night up to you. Let me help you with this one job for the next few days.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need help.”
“I believe you.” His gaze touches mine, a depth there that I envy. “But I do have a number of programs that just might sweeten the deal.”
I inhale a deep breath as I consider his offer. He did track me down, an ability that requires a certain notable skillset, I admit. I should’ve felt threatened—any other rational person would—but I was impressed. That’s ultimately why I set up this meeting, to evaluate him.
He’s definitely intelligent and has unique skills that could be beneficial. I could use him for this job…then ghost him if it gets weird. Maybe I’ll get a couple new fun programs out of the deal to make it worth my time.
“Say I consider this offer,” I say, gauging him closely. “What do you get out of it?”
He places his hands behind his head, relaxed, at ease. “I don’t know. Excitement. A break in monotony. What I was looking for at the club and found exceedingly lacking.”
All right. Maybe I can use him. My identity with Ericson is blown. Starting from scratch means money, spending capital, losing the profit I’ll make on the job—and Ericson did seem to glom on to this guy. “What do you know about company finances?”
He lowers his arms, taking my question seriously. “I know math. So…give me the afternoon to learn the rest.”
“Cocky,” I remark. But I like it. I’m pretty cocky myself in knowing my strengths. “Okay then. I hope I don’t regret this.” I swipe a napkin and jot down a location. “We’ll meet up here at noon. Bring your best toys.”
As I hike back toward Tribeca, I replay the past half hour in my head, looking for any cues I missed. Honestly, despite his annoying incessantness, I like Alex. I like very few people. He’s different, interesting.
I shake out my hair. Now that my identity is no longer secret, I’ll keep the blond. I find I’m starting to like it, too. It’s a part of this unpredictable change that, in any other circumstance, would frustrate me. Yet I’m somehow enjoying the sudden spontaneity of it all.
Hypothesis
Alex
The scratch of the lead across the page sends a prickling sensation over my skin. As I work on the outline of Blakely’s features, the woman begins to materialize. It’s an image right out of my memory bank. Blakely sitting across from me at the bistro table, her tousled blond hair falling over her slender shoulders, those sea-green orbs staring right down to my marrow.
I keep a journal for each subject. Filled with notes, observations, results, and sketches. I find that, even though I work primarily with data, a visual representation alongside all that data helps me see the whole picture.
I look up from the page and stare blankly as I recall her features. A building-choked horizon looms over green treetops of Central Park. The park is muggy today, like so many other days in the spring. There’s a filmy haze in the air that settles on my skin. I can taste it, that thick layer, every time I take a breath. It tastes like the way one would imagine fog to taste.
I’m camped out on the bench at the entrance to the park, my journal spread open before me, as I saver another few moments to sketch Blakely’s beautiful face. I know she’s watching me. I arrived here fifteen minutes early, and I felt the moment her stone-cool eyes snared me in her perceptive gaze.
She’s assessing me. Even though she agreed to let me “tag along”, she’s not entirely convinced it was the right choice. I had to appeal to her greedy nature in order to get this far. I have something she wants; a tempting program that intrigues the hacker in her.
If I hadn’t been convinced of her nature after I woke up in the supply closet of the club with a pounding headache…her admission of how she came to work in the field of revenge sealed my resolve.
She wanted money. She knew she could do the revenge job and she did it.
A person with a psychopathic disposition doesn’t have the same kind of fears as the average person. What holds us back—fear of failure, fear of success, fear of change—the healthy types of fear that help govern our choices and actions, doesn’t reside within Blakely.
Her lack of fear propels her forward. Very little holds her back. She makes rash, impromptu decisions based on her wants. This doesn’t mean she’s impulsive. Rather, she’s exceedingly crafty, sharp-witted. Cautious when the situation calls for it.
In order to lower her defenses, I had to downplay my own similar attributes. I can’t be competition. Better she believe I’m a loser than a rival.
She most likely learned early on that she was different than others, which made her stand out, made people notice and question her. This can be a weakness to the less self-aware psychopath; people see you coming…and they get out of the way.
Blakely wasn’t only wary during our meeting, she was guarded. She’s built high walls in order to protect herself from those she doesn’t understand. Which happens to be most of the human population.
Footsteps approach on the sidewalk, the hollow thud of boot heels on pavement. I check the time on my pocket watch. Noon on the dot.
I close the journal and tuck it away in my canvass backpack as she rounds the bend toward my bench.
“Are you a bird watcher, too?” Blakely asks. “Or are you just creeping on passerby?”
I smile at that. From both my interactions with her, I’ve determined she uses sarcasm in place of sentiment. Sentiment is difficult to simulate. It’s much easier to be perceived as sarcastic. It’s a good coversheet for her psychopathy.
“I’m journaling.” I look her over. She’s wearing her hair tucked into a black knit cap. Dark-denim jeans with a slim gray thermal. A camera bag is slung over one shoulder. “Are you here to spy?”
She tilts her head. “What gave it away?” I laugh as she takes up the seat on the bench beside me and unzips the leather case. “Ericson comes here every Monday to meet with one of his bigwig clients.”
As she adjusts the camera lens, I say, “It’s a little strange meeting your financial advisor in a park, isn’t it?”
She brings the camera up to her eye and pans the area. “This client is a bit eccentric. And paranoid.” She halts her scan. “There you are.”
Rapid-fire picture snaps sound out before she lowers the camera. “What do you journal?”
She’s still trying to figure me out, whether she can trust me…as much as she’s capable. “Application code. New ideas. Problem solving.” I lift my shoulders in a partial shrug. “Whatever thought I have that I don’t want to forget.” I prop my elbows on my knees, getting closer to her. “Are you going to tell me what Ericson did to get put on your list?”
Gaze steadily tracking a man in a black blazer, she says, “Cheated on his wife.”
I huff a derisive laugh, and she glances at me with a craned eyebrow. “Sorry,” I say. “I just thought it would be something a little more…”
“A little more dire?” she asks, her tone caustic. “Because a cheater isn’t that bad?”
“Fair enough.” I turn my gaze out toward the winding trail. The man in the blazer approaches another man. From this viewpoint, I can just make out that it’s likely Ericson.
“Get your program ready,” Blakely says, nodding toward Ericson and his acquaintance. “We need access to Ericson’s phone. Can you grab his metadata from this distance?”
I take out my phone and start the scan. “I guess let’s find out.”
While the program does the hard work, I study her profile. Blakely is soft in this light, an illusion.
I blink and refocus my thoughts. I made a mental note earlier that she appears to be right-handed. This is important. I need to confirm this, as it has bearing on the project.<
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“What does Mrs. Ericson have in mind for her cheating husband?” I ask.
Blakely snaps another round of pictures then, using her right hand, sets her camera inside the case. “If she knew that, she wouldn’t need me.” She stands. “Come on.”
I follow her to a large rock structure near the pond, where she instructs me to “look nonchalant” as she hikes up a narrow path to the top. Below, benches wrap the paved trail, and a family of three casts fishing line into the green pond.
As I move beside her, I set my pack down. She again takes out her camera, using the lens to zoom in on Ericson and the man, who are having a conversation near the bank of the pond. “He’s not just a cheater,” Blakely says.
I stay quiet, waiting for her to elaborate.
“He’s a deviant,” she says. “Gets his rocks off by beating and strangling prostitutes, though he hasn’t killed anyone. That I know of.”
I blow out a breath. “That seems to warrant a place at the top of your list.”
Her mouth presses into a tight line. “I don’t take jobs based on how deserving a target is of revenge. Although, if I did, yes. He’d be near the top.”
“Then, how do you select your victims?”
“I have a checklist,” she says matter-of-factly. “My original scheme for Ericson involved getting access to his company computer. But now…” She trails off, her gaze roving after Ericson as he heads toward the park exit. “Maybe there’s a better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge.” She looks at me. “Did you get what you needed?”
I check the app and nod, satisfied.
“Good,” she says.
Our spying complete, I lean back and brace my palms against the rock, gaze cast out over the murky pond. “A better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge such as…?”
“Such as—” She nods with her camera pointed toward the mountain of buildings looming over the park. “See The Plaza right there? Ericson’s eccentric and paranoid client resides in the penthouse. His name is Brewster. That’s where their nefarious negotiations and other degenerate happenings take place.”
I nod slowly as I take in the building. I don’t know much about New York architecture, but you don’t have to be a native to know The Plaza’s ritzy and historic reputation. “Why not just rent a room to get access?” I question.
“Sure,” Blakely says, then she turns her gaze on me. “You got thirty grand to throw away?”
My eyes widen. “I see your point.” I think for a moment. “I could get you into Ericson’s company network. I know how corporate closed networks operate, and even better if it’s a Linux system.”
She licks her lips, considering this. I’ve noticed she does this particular action when she’s weighing what she wants—a predatory response, a sexual reflex aimed to distract. I wonder if she realizes this, or if it’s a subconscious tactic.
“That would only lead to his financial ruin.” She leans back to join me against the rock.
“Is Mrs. Daverns aware of the deviant extent of her husband’s extracurricular activities?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her long layers beneath the cap drawing my gaze as they dance over her breasts. “Lenora is not aware. That’s why I first decided that getting him fired would suit her.”
“Revealing his criminal dealings and womanizing, abusive ways would do that and more,” I say. “He might serve a prison sentence, depending on how well you execute the scheme. But then his wife would discover just what a monster she married.”
I watch her closely, trying to detect each micro expression. Blakely can’t sympathize or feel badly for this woman; she doesn’t have the emotional capability. There has to be another reason as to why she would want to go after Ericson to this extreme.
“Lenora is strong,” she says, reasoning—or justifying—out loud. “Besides, revenge should be equally comparable to the crime against the victim.” She looks into my eyes. “In Ericson’s case, victims. He deserves to pay for the harm he’s caused.”
Interesting. On the surface, it appears she wants justice, but dive a little deeper into her psyche, and you’ll probably discover a desire to inflict pain. Blakely is a justice dealer. She can claim it’s about the money—and I’m sure that part doesn’t hurt—but oh, she enjoys making people suffer.
I have the urge to grab my journal and jot down a note.
The third step of the scientific method is the hypothesis. Create a theory with presumed outcomes. I’m close, but not quite there yet. Before I can develop a hypothesis, I need a couple key pieces of information.
One: To determine if her psychopathy is due to a brain injury or natural development.
The age-old question of nature versus nurture.
The ideal subject cannot have sustained damage to the frontal lobe, the area where empathy and impulse reside. A damaged cerebral cortex will skew the test results. And honestly, I’m not a doctor. After everything with Mary…I have no interest in brain surgery.
Two: Who is Blakely close to? Family, friends, business associates? How much time will go by before someone starts asking questions?
“You have no input on the matter?”
Her question jars me out of my thoughts. I push the bridge of my glasses up, refocusing my attention. “I’m not a judge or jury, Blakely,” I say. “I’ve never given much thought to crime and punishment. It doesn’t affect my daily routine. I’m not the guy to weigh this choice.”
She stares at me for a moment, then a throaty laugh bursts free. “You are such a nerdy scientist,” she says, and I’m captivated by her smile. “Well, I make those choices nearly every day, so I’m going with my gut instinct on this one. It’s never failed me before.”
“I trust you,” I say.
A heavy beat falls between us, weighted by those three simple words.
“You don’t know me well enough to trust me,” she remarks.
I shrug. “I’m getting to know you. That counts.”
Blakely says nothing. I know I’m coming across as direct and ignorant. I just hope that my attempt to lower her defenses isn’t too obvious. For this moment, I choose not to disturb the silence, just let us acclimate to each other, hopefully giving her the sense that there’s no need to force conversation.
I want to close my eyes so I can let my other senses absorb her. Beneath the smell of pond and city smog, I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Notes of coconut milk and bergamot. I want to find out the name of it. There’s a buzz at the feel of being so physically close to Blakely. The air is energized between us, heated molecules firing from her skin to mine. An electric current coaxing my body toward hers.
She has a natural allure.
It’s the law of conservation of energy. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only changed in form, and she’s her own isolated system, luring my cells to merge with hers in one fiery explosion.
Just as I turn toward her, she sits forward. Dusts her palms off on her thighs. “We should leave.”
“Okay, but what’s the plan?” I grab my backpack and chase after her as she heads down the path.
She pauses near the paved pathway to look up at the towering gothic building of The Plaza. “To get you inside the attic this weekend.”
I hitch my pack over my shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me first if I agree to this?”
“No,” she says, and starts off again. “You wanted excitement, you’re about to get it.” She tosses a crooked smile back at me.
“Sure. Any sage words of advice?”
“Yeah. Don’t fuck up.”
Target
Blakely
The arousing scent of freshly brewed coffee awakens my senses. I accept my double espresso from the young barista with a neck tattoo and take a steaming-hot swallow before I push through the coffee shop door.
Alex is waiting for me at the corner. “Did you know that processed coffee has more toxins than any other food or beverage?”
I take an extra-long s
wig as I stare at him over the brim of the paper cup.
His smile is mocking. “Noted.”
“Come on, Bill Nye. Unlike you, I’m not on vacation, so I do have a day job to check in with.”
We cross the street at the crosswalk, and I let Alex lead me to his apartment building. In order to use the information that Alex’s application siphoned from Ericson’s phone, we need to clone it onto a new device. Then I can figure out the next step of this insane plan.
Normally, making shit up as I go is not how I operate, but I rarely have to devise a whole new revenge scheme mid job. Besides, keeping Alex in the dark is a necessary measure at this stage. Despite his apparent trusting nature, I don’t trust anyone. He’s an intellectual type who has zero experience with men like Ericson and the ruffians he associates with. That’s not only a huge disadvantage, it’s a liability.
First, before I allow Alex to go anywhere near these men, I need to see how he interacts with people in a tense setting. If we move forward with this plan, I’ll be sending him directly into the wolf’s den. Or lion’s den. Whatever it’s called.
Not that my conscience is what’s making me hesitant; I don’t know Alex. He’s not a central part of my life. Not like Rochelle or Lomax. Alex could be a future asset…if he can pull this off. But if he can’t…
Then I might just steal his hacking software and send him back to the lab.
Hell, I need to get something out of this deal. He did botch the job, after all. I should be collecting the final payment from Lenora right now.
So my hesitancy is in whether or not Alex is worth the risk. I don’t want to sacrifice the guy—but if this job comes down to me or him, I’m always choosing me. I can’t let an amateur tank my business.
“Here we are,” Alex says as he unlocks his front door.
