by Bergen, KC
He was happy that he’d also put Michael to sleep. The boy knew his real identity as Peter South, porn actor. The kid was likely also privy to his father’s plan, which did not, to Peter’s knowledge, include drugging and kidnapping the shepherd. It did sound like what a real KGB officer would do. Maybe his method acting had taken a great leap forward.
Peter turned on the light, which reflected off the disco ball dangling from the living room ceiling. Worried about dropping his cargo, he lifted his feet as he stepped onto the zebra-striped rug and then dumped Mr. Sleepyhead on the couch.
Thirsty, he padded into the kitchen and popped open a beer. He chugged it, satisfied with the outcome of his plan. He glanced at the movie poster hanging on the wall above the couch. The poster depicted a loin-clothed Peter South wrestling a gorilla to save a voluptuous redhead. The poster’s header read, “Candy Crotch and Peter South in … King Dong!”
Peter chuckled. The girl was going to be his, all right. But what should he do with Novak? The guy wasn’t going to be asleep forever. Peter figured he might give the shepherd more sleep medicine, stuff him in a large suitcase, and drop him off at the airport like a package at the post office. But he had never traveled farther than Las Vegas, and that was in a car, so he didn’t know if that was possible. Tristan Drimov, on the other hand, had journeyed across the seven seas. The Russian KGB officer would probably put the guy down for good, but Peter wasn’t sure if he was that much of a method actor.
What would Tristan do in a situation like this? Tristan. Peter was at home now, not on the job. Shaking his head and shoulders to loosen up a bit, he decided to take a break from the Tristan character. Method acting was hard work, and this was Peter’s house—well, one-bedroom apartment—and he didn’t need to act to be the star of his own show. If he played his cards right, he might soon end up living in a huge mansion. Mary’s son was a nuisance, though, but Brian desperately wanted custody. Peter chugged the rest of the beer and tossed the empty can in the trash. His plan could very well provide him with everything he’d ever dreamed of, maybe more. But first thing’s first.
Peter went to his bedroom and opened the closet. In a drawer he kept a couple of whips, a can of whipped cream, a whisk, and a jar of pickles. But where were the handcuffs? He recalled that he’d brought them over to Candy’s house for their previous recital. He’d forgotten to bring them back! Perhaps he could use the end of the whips to tie up Novak? No—he had something better in the drawer below: electrical tape.
Peter flipped Novak over on his stomach and taped the shepherd’s limp wrists behind his back. Peter then tied Novak’s ankles together, taped his mouth, and dragged him into the bathroom, where he plopped Novak into the bathtub. Panting, Peter splashed water in his face. What a day! He almost felt envious of Novak. The guy looked so relaxed, while Peter felt tense all over.
Peter took out his cellphone and made a call. “Candy? Hey girl, do you have an opening tonight? Sweet!” He whistled with happiness as he turned off the light and closed the bathroom door.
45
Mary checked on Michael again. He was still asleep. Last night she’d carried him to his room, laid him in bed, and prayed that everything was going to be okay. She felt horrible about the situation and had checked on her son so many times throughout the night that she’d lost count. Dead tired, she went downstairs to the kitchen to make some coffee. There was a knock on the door. Tristan.
Mary opened it. “What happened?”
Tristan hurried inside. “Are we alone?”
“Yes. Michael is still sleeping.”
“Good.” Tristan crept into the living room.
“Where are you going?” Mary asked.
“Just making sure the premises are secure.” Tristan crept over to the nearest window and peeked through the blinds. “The package is safe,” he said.
“The package?”
“The Slovenian spy.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Yes, but we’re not done yet.” He moved away from the window and grabbed Mary by the shoulders. “My mermaid. I’m sorry for not calling you last night. But the KGB—”
“You don’t have to apologize. I understand. Thanks for cleaning up the mess.”
“The spy is being tagged as we speak. We’re going to track him to the Slovenian source.” Tristan lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t disclose any information, but I can’t keep a secret from you: Novak is the Viper.”
“The Viper?”
“Shh, not so loud. We’ve been trying to capture his slithering ass for a decade. This is a major breakthrough. We should celebrate.”
“Well, the fundraiser is tomorrow.”
“Perfect! And when is the Viper scheduled to return?”
“The day after. But you’re not going to let him leave just like that, are you?”
“Of course not. However, I’m communicating with headquarters, and we need to know.”
“Be careful, Tristan.”
“Da. Soon we’ll be together, my mermaid. When I’ve taken care of the Viper, I’m retiring from the KGB.”
“You are? Why?”
“I have fallen for you, Mary. Big time.” Tristan caressed Mary’s wrist. “If you want it, the hand of love is yours.”
Mary was flattered, but she didn’t know what to do with Tristan’s hand, or the rest of him. For the moment Michael’s safety was her primary concern. She pulled her hand away and folded her arms. “Can you quit just like that? Don’t you think someone will come looking for you?”
“The KGB is not like the mafia, Mary. It’s more like a sports team. If you want out, you simply don’t renew your contract. And mine expires at the end of the month.”
“I see.” Mary hesitated to commit to any form of arrangement, and an awkward silence passed between them. She cleared her throat. “Well, you must be hungry from working all night.”
Candy Crotch had certainly depleted his electrolyte levels. “Da. I can eat.”
“I’ll fix you an omelet.”
In the hallway they ran into Michael. The boy was pale, hunched-over, and reeling.
Mary hunkered down to support her son. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I feel sick,” Michael said. He could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m dizzy. It feels like I can’t wake up.”
“Probably nothing serious,” Tristan said.
“How would you know?” Michael asked.
“In the KGB we learn both first and second aid. I’m practically a doctor.”
Mary placed the back of her hand against Michael’s forehead; he was clammy and warm and could hardly stand up straight. She had screwed up enough already and didn’t want to take any more chances with her son’s health. “I’ll take you to the doctor.” To Tristan she said, “Do you want to come with us?”
Tristan checked his watch. “I should go. I have some KGB stuff to do. I’ll see you later.”
Mary helped Michael get dressed.
“Where’s Novak?” Michael asked.
“He left.”
“He left? Where’d he go?”
“He went home,” Mary said, telling herself that she wasn’t lying to her son so much as she was protecting him.
“But he would never leave without saying bye.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary tied Michael’s shoelaces. “It was a grown-up thing. It was for the best.”
When Mary and Michael left, Tristan was still in his car in the driveway, on the phone. To Mary, Tristan appeared animated and upset. But she had her own problems to handle as she took off, racing toward the hospital.
***
Feeling less drowsy for every passing moment, Michael couldn’t shake a sense of disbelief at Novak leaving so suddenly. And was this part of his dad’s plan? Or was Tristan acting alone? Michael couldn’t call his father and ask because his mom was in the car. Should he confess to her or try to fix things on his own? Torn between loyalties to his mom and dad, he felt paralyzed. Anxious. But he definitely didn’t need
a doctor’s examination.
“Turn the car around,” Michael said. “I’m not sick.”
“Are you sure?”
Michael nodded, and his mom made a U-turn. Soon Michael spotted Tristan’s Jag speed by in the opposite direction.
“Where’s the KBG guy going?” Michael asked.
“Probably to work.”
Michael observed his mom with suspicion. Even though she gave him a reassuring look, he could tell that she was hiding something.
46
Feeling groggy, Novak opened his eyes. He attempted to move his hands but was unable to. Same thing with his legs. And it was pitch black.
What’s going on? Where am I?
His inner voice was slow, his mind foggy. He tried to wriggle his body but to no avail. He was in some type of container. A coffin? Was he buried alive?
Am I dead?
He tried to cry for help. Only a muffled yelp escaped his lips. Someone had taped his mouth shut. He felt woozy and nauseated. But throwing up with a sealed mouth could spell disaster. Breathing slowly, Novak felt his mind and stomach calm down. The container did not feel as claustrophobic as a coffin. He tried to sit up, but his hands were tied behind his back. He lifted both legs and realized that there was no lid. Lowering and then extending his legs, his shoes bumped against a surface, a short wall. He was in some sort of enclosure. And he picked up on fragrances of soap and perfume, dankness and dirt. The fog was lifting.
He was definitely not dead.
As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he craned his neck and tried to scan the surroundings. He made out the contours of a sink to his left. A mirror above it. And he saw the edge of a … tub. He was in a bathroom. Tied up in a tub. But whose?
What’s the last thing that happened?
His mind was hazy, but he remembered sitting on a couch. Michael was there with him. Mary and Tristan too. Yes, and they had enjoyed a sweet beverage when Novak suddenly felt sleepy. Very, very sleepy. The lemonade! It must have been laced with drugs. But who’d want to … Tristan! That bastard wanted Mary to himself. Or what if he’d drugged the whole family, intent on stealing their stuff and do God knows what else to them?
Novak had to find a way to get out. Get help. But how?
My knife!
Both hands were tied behind him, and the whittling knife was in his back pocket. If he could only … He used his legs and upper body to wriggle and then roll over onto his side. Tried to fish the knife out of his pocket. He managed to get his fingertips around it, but the knife slipped out and clanged against the tub.
Novak cut his breath short. He thought he heard footsteps. Was someone outside that closed bathroom door?
47
Brian was roaring down the highway, his son in the passenger seat. “I’m glad you called me, playa. I came as fast as I could.”
“I snuck out so please don’t tell Mom.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Now tell me what’s going on.”
Michael told his father that he’d fallen asleep while watching TV and that Novak had mysteriously disappeared by the time he’d awakened. “Is this part of a new plan or something like that?” he asked.
“No. This is all Peter South’s doing.” The man-whore had called Brian, attempting to blackmail him. He wanted to be the star of Brian’s next movie and also an executive producer, demanding 30 percent, net! And now he’d what, kidnapped the Slovenian? The guy was clearly unhinged.
Michael said that he’d seen Tristan—Peter—driving down the road and that he thought his mom was hiding something.
“Un-fucking-believable! Your mother is so irresponsible. We have to stop them!”
“But this was your plan, Dad. Initially.”
“We’re in this together, playa. You know, I only did this for Mary and you, with your best interests in mind.”
“Sure,” Michael said flatly. “So what are we going to do?”
“First of all, you don’t want your mother to kill herself, do you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then keep your mouth shut about this whole plan.”
“Okay.”
“That’s my boy! I’m proud of you, playa. This is what it’s all about, you know— overcoming problems, creating cool stories, and living to tell the tale. Hot chicks love tall tales, you know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“Well, just pay attention and you’ll learn. A classroom can’t teach you how to spin a story or dig for gold. You don’t want to just randomly dig a hole in the middle of nowhere, do you?”
“I guess not,” Michael said.
“Exactly! That deep hole will more than likely end up being your own grave. No gold, just a cold dark hole where your carcass will rot. And some vile creature of the night will gnaw the flesh off your bones and take a dump on you too. From dust to dust sprinkled with crap, and do you think the world gives a shit? No, we’re all alone when it comes down to it and only shit trickles down. For the good things—money, fame, hot chicks—you’ve got to kick ass and take names, hostages, vitamins … whatever it takes to make it. Don’t commit to anyone or anything, though. Well, sometimes you have to commit to a story to really make it work. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, as long as you consistently say it right. Hey, are you paying attention?”
“Yeah,” Michael said, sighing. “Where are we going?”
“I know where Peter lives. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
48
The patter of footsteps was coming from the apartment above. Novak exhaled, but he was far from relieved. Lying on his side in the tub, he grasped at the knife’s handle. He picked it up briefly, and then the knife clanged against the tub again.
“Damn,” Novak spluttered into the tape. He wriggled his body farther down the tub to locate the knife. A sting against his fingers as he cut himself. “Argh!”
Calm down.
At least he’d located the knife, and the cut wasn’t going to kill him. Unless it got severely infected, but he really didn’t want to consider that outcome. With his right hand, he managed to get ahold of the knife, and he cautiously turned the blade against the thick tape wrapped tightly around his wrists. He started cutting. Then he heard a door slam shut. And the sound didn’t come from above.
***
Peter South slammed the car door shut and walked toward his apartment. He was pensive and pissed off. Brian had refused to give Peter the contract he wanted, and the shit bag knew where Peter lived. On the drive over he’d wracked his brain trying to figure out a plan to get rid of Novak. Fast. The best idea he’d come up with was to relocate the hogtied shepherd to the storage unit where Peter kept furniture and other things he’d inherited from his mother when she had died seven months ago. His mom had always told him to aim for the stars. If she could see him now, he felt certain she’d be proud. Peter was on the threshold of stardom and wealth, as long as he made the right move. But he realized that this particular move posed several problems.
The storage place was under strict video surveillance and was usually also busy. How would Peter transport a live human being past cameras and people? And even if he managed to smuggle Novak into the unit, Peter still needed to provide food and water. And what about waste? He couldn’t have the guy crap and piss all over his dear late mother’s furniture and prized possessions. The shitty shepherd would ruin everything.
No, he thought. He was looking at it from the wrong angle. Peter would put Novak in a storage unit. What would Tristan do? The KGB officer would likely use his gun to kill the guy and then dump the body. Who’d ever search for a lonesome traveler who’d seemingly just returned to the place he came from?
Peter stopped right outside his apartment door. Had his method acting become too methodical? Was he growing into this role to the point of losing his perspective? Unaccustomed to this level of thinking, he felt light-headed. Maybe he had to compromise—find a way to act like Tristan but infuse the ruthless KGB officer’s attit
ude with Peter’s more human instincts and values. Yes, Peter told himself. That’s the right answer.
Da.
As Tristan entered the apartment, he thought he heard a noise. He immediately drew his gun.
***
Novak quickly sliced through the tape to free his hands. He stopped to listen. No sounds at the moment but an urgency in the air. He had to get out. Now.
He cut the tape around his ankles, pocketed his knife, stepped out of the tub, and fumbled for the light switch. Found it and turned on a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The next part was going to hurt: pulling off the tape covering his mouth. Novak braced himself, took a deep breath, and yanked hard. He groaned as the tape tore out stubble.
“Holy sheep,” he mumbled, discarding the tape in the overflowing trash bin.
Rubbing his aching hairless wrists, he thought about his next move. What if Tristan was out there behind the closed door? And what if it was locked or barricaded?
Novak carefully turned the knob. The door was open. Novak closed it behind him and crept forward. He peeked into the room across the hallway. A bedroom. Nobody was there, just a king-size bed dressed in red sheets against the left wall, a panda rug on the middle of the floor that Novak hoped was fake, and a tall closet to the right. The closet doors were open, a couple of drawers pulled out. He spotted a whisk, some whips, and a jar of pickles. Odd, Novak thought, but not really useful, as he needed to get out.
He crept toward the living room when he heard someone unlocking the front door. Novak turned on his heels and rushed into the bedroom.
49
Michael spotted the Jag outside Tristan’s apartment. “He’s here!”
“Yep.” Brian parked his car farther down the lot.
“What’s the plan?” Michael asked.
