18. Theron

18

THERON

LOVE CRIME - SIOUXSIE

"Follow that black car!" I yell, wrenching open the door to the first taxicab I see.

The driver's only response is to tap the sign dangling among the pine air fresheners on his rearview mirror.

CASH ONLY

Cash isn't something I usually carry around with me. I pry open my well-used leather wallet to dig out the few twenties I've got on me. "Here," I say, shoving the cash up front at the driver. "I know it's short notice, but you've got to follow that damn car!"

The crumpled twenty dollar bills spill onto the seat next to him. He throws me a glance over his shoulder, the baseball cap he wears low on his brow, the profile of his nose large. He's a middle-aged man not much older than I am, with touches of gray threaded through his ear-length hair .

"Address?" he asks.

"I've got no address," I grit out. "I just need you to follow that car—there! The license plate is CUY7131."

"Okay, okay," he says in an accent I can't place but that sounds vaguely Eastern European. "Calm down, my friend. We'll follow."

We enter traffic with six cars between us and them. We're hitting the downtown district, which means traffic becomes congested on a good evening. On a Friday night, with drizzle sprinkling down and the roads slick and shiny, the pace slows to glacial.

I sit on the edge of the middle seat, my arms propped up on the back of both front seats, peering out the windshield. The best vantage point for keeping up with the traffic up ahead… and keeping my eye on Nyssa and the mystery man.

"So what's your name?" the driver asks, seeking eye contact in the rearview mirror.

"None of your concern."

"Mine is Casimir. Where're you headed?"

"Casimir, I appreciate your attempt at small talk. However—and there's no polite way to say this—shut the fuck up and focus on following that car!"

He chuckles as if I've told a joke. "Okay, okay. This must be serious business. I'll pull out all the stops."

I'd be amused if my heart wasn't jackhammering in my chest. If I didn't have a sick, twisted feeling pitted in my stomach that whatever it is that's happening can't be good.

Why the hell would Nyssa be meeting older men at sex clubs on Friday nights? Why would she be getting in some man's car? Where is he taking her?!

…and to do what?

Traffic thins out once we're past the popular streets with the boutiques, restaurants, theaters, and other establishments on them. The six cars in between us dwindles to three and then two.

Casimir seems to sense it's best to hover this far back. It's enough of a buffer to remain dubious and unseen while still following them.

"The car is turning left onto Vineland Avenue," he observes aloud, switching on his turn signal too. "A nice car like that. They are headed for the castle tower. Don't you think?"

Though my answer comes in a silent, stiff nod to Casimir's question, I'm working on the same theory.

The Castlebury Tower is the tallest building in town, second only to the clock tower on the university campus. The building's comprised of private offices and luxury apartments that run anywhere from one million to ten the higher the floor.

Dad owns an apartment in this building. At the time of purchase, he claimed it would make the perfect man cave getaway from Mom. This was before they'd given up on pretending their marriage was healthy and intact.

I'd gone with him the afternoon he previewed the property. He'd boasted about the other men in his circle who owned offices and apartments in the same building, telling me about how the likes of Rothenberg and Cummings brought their mistresses here in their spare time.

It didn't take long before Dad was joining in on that tradition…

As the car Nyssa's in turns down the tunneled path that leads to an underground garage, I'm typing quickly on my phone. I'm researching just who else owns property in this building and if my hunch is correct .

"Stop here," I say halfway down the street. "I'll make it the rest of the way on foot."

I start to slide out from the backseat, then pause to unlatch the stainless steel Rolex from my wrist. "Take this," I say, "as extra payment for getting me here. It's used, but it should still be worth about ten grand."

Casimir nods gratefully and wishes me luck on my mysterious endeavor.

By the time he's driving away, I've wrenched off the tweed jacket I'm wearing. My fingers furiously unbutton my crisp button-up shirt. I toss both in the nearest receptacle but not before pocketing my eyeglasses.

Now for my face…

I head toward the corner store half a block down that's lit up on an otherwise wet, shadowy street. In hopes of finding some kind of disposable face mask to don, I find something even more useful inside the tiny store.

Toward the back is the Halloween clearance section, where several masks dangle from the hooks of the rotating display stand. My fingers curl around the skeleton one that resembles a ski mask in design, and I snatch it off the hook.

The cashier checks me out up front, the transaction totaling four dollars and twenty-seven cents.

I return to the scene outside the Castlebury Tower in full disguise.

I'm in nothing more than a plain dark shirt and the skeletal mask. Perhaps not totally foolproof, but the best I can do on such short notice. It's damn sure better than Clark Kent when he changes into Superman.

I cross the rain-slick side street and come up on the back of the tall building. If memory serves me correct, there was a massive courtyard on the ground floor which offered an alternate entrance. On a wet, frigid night like tonight, something tells me few people will be lounging outdoors.

I'm proven right as I gently open the glass door and slip inside the far end of the lobby. A bellboy happens to be fifteen feet off, standing by the elevators as he converses with a miffed-looking older woman in pearls.

Ducking out of sight, I take refuge behind a collection of leafy bamboo plants.

The moment becomes surreal in the way all seemingly impossible scenarios do.

Suddenly, my life has become a video game, where I'm to evade detection and make it upstairs.

The top floor penthouse if my instincts are correct.

Nyssa and her older companion haven't passed through the lobby yet. I block out the disturbing mental imagery that they could be sitting in the backseat of his car talking… or doing other things.

Just when I'm pondering if I'm trapped forever behind these bamboo plants, a man in a maintenance uniform strolls by, pushing a cart. He whistles as he stops at the elevator, scanning his access card against the panel that grants him use of it.

My adrenaline drums inside me. My gaze swings from the bellboy still engaged with the woman in pearls to the maintenance man waiting for the elevator.

It's now or never.

As the elevator doors roll open and the maintenance man steps inside with his cart, I rush toward the entrance to join him. I've ripped off my skeletal mask, clutching it nondescriptly in my hands.

Ironically, the situation works in my favor without the mask—the man nods at me as if he recognizes me.

And won't question what I'm doing on this elevator .

We ride up several floors in silence, and then I take yet another risk.

"I believe I've seen you before. But we haven't been properly introduced."

"You have? Well, been working here for a decade. Guess that makes sense. Thought I recognized you too."

"Thurman Adler. I own property in this building. Fifteenth floor."

"That so? No wonder you look so familiar."

No… that would be my father…

"Well, it's a good one to have a stake in. Round-the-clock amenities. Even maintenance. Why d'you think I'm here so late?" He gives a gruff laugh. "Got a dishwasher I've got to repair on the eleventh floor. Actually, this is me. You need anything, you let me know."

"Enjoy the rest of your night," I say once we've reached his floor and he's stepped off.

He gives me a polite nod and picks up his whistle as he starts down the hall.

I smash my finger on the close button, then select the top floor. The maintenance man didn't notice—the tag pinned to his chest said his name was Walter—but as he talked, I swiped his access card.

Snuck it right off his cart.

Yet another insane risk I've taken in such a short amount of time.

…you have no idea the lengths I'm willing to go through for you, Miss Oliver.

But I will make sure you atone for making me do this…

I arrive on the top floor with my skeletal mask back over my face. While there's usually cameras in the elevators of buildings like this, I hope I've kept myself angled enough that I didn't appear too clearly .

I take the same care slinking down the hall of the top floor.

The entire floor is dedicated to the penthouse, the entrance straight ahead. The same type of black panel that had been outside the elevator in the lobby is mounted to the left of the penthouse door. I stop in front of it, inhale a deep breath, and scan the card I've swiped.

The little light blinks green and the lock clicks.

I'm not even sure what I plan to do now that I've gained entry.

Nyssa and her gentleman caller will be up any moment. I'll be faced with the immediate decision of whether to lurk and spy or sate my impulsiveness and confront them.

Both seem like possibilities.

Both halves of myself I'll have to choose between.

"It isn't what you think it is, Theron," Professor Vise chuckled. "The girl has so many crazy ideas. I regret ever trying to take her under my wing."

He approached with a kettle emitting curls of steam and poured hot water into our mugs. Soon the tea bag's turned the water a pale amber shade.

"What kind of ideas?" I asked, trying to keep a hold on my temper. I was running as hot as the boiling water in my mug.

A tall man with copper skin and broad shoulders, Vise reclaimed his seat across from me and brought his mug up to his mouth to blow on his tea. "You know, all kinds of things. She can't seem to leave well enough alone."

"Like what, Professor?" I pressed.

His dark eyes gleamed as he put down the mug again. His chuckle returned, weaved in between each word of his response. "Well, for starters, she's gone around making very damaging accusations. Specifically about who's behind Valentine."

"Such as?"

"Me," he answered, then his laugh deepened. "She thinks I'm Valentine. Isn't that absolutely ridiculous? Of all people… me?!"

My eyes darken staring at the penthouse door, waiting for it to open.

I haven't even bothered to claim a hiding spot. I'm standing defiantly out in the open of the massive forty square foot living room area among the bright pendant lights and bland beige furnishings.

A crazed, irrational part of me wants to see the look of surprise on their faces when they walk in.

I want to witness the way Nyssa's features round with sheer shock and watch as she struggles to stitch together an explanation.

An even darker part of me aches to reach for one of the knives in the immaculate kitchen and lodge it straight into his throat. The barbaric urges are far beneath me on any other occasion, except situations such as this .

Sometimes, in situations such as this, it's justified.

Voices sound from outside the door.

They're home.

The door sweeps open and Jackson Wicker ushers Nyssa through in the middle of telling her about his last yacht trip in the Maldives.

She's as poised and complimentary as expected, giving a soft hum of interest. His hand falls to the small of her back to guide her deeper into the spacious floor plan of the penthouse.

I've chosen to hide out of view after all.

Curiosity overtook rage, at least for the moment. At least until I understand what the hell's going on.

"Didn't I tell you no one would see us, darling? The private entry is very discreet. It's for us VIP residents. Allows us to have very secret, very naughty visitors over."

Nyssa merely casts him a polite smile, her gaze borderline vacant as if to give nothing away.

"How about I pour us some drinks, darling, while you freshen up?" he asks. "Don't forget what we agreed. You know what I expect."

The corner of Nyssa's mouth twitches, almost disrupting her pasted-on smile. "How could I forget? I've been waiting for you."

It's then that I notice she has a small overnight bag with her. Jackson guides her toward the hall—again, with his damn stubby-fingered hand at the small of her bare back—and he directs her to where the bathroom is.

"In the bedroom, darling," he says. "Use the ensuite. I can't wait to see you all dolled up."

Nyssa humors him with a small giggle, then disappears down the hall.

Jackson Wicker starts toward the minibar that's set up against the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

While his back is turned fixing drinks, I slip the skeletal mask back over my face and step out from behind the sectional sofa.

I stalk by the kitchen and pluck the largest knife from the wooden block perched on the counter. Jackson turns half around, speaking to himself aloud.

"Where did I put that corkscrew? Ah, yes. Here it is."

The oaf, who's as slow-witted as his jock son, turns all the way back around again. He adds ice to both glasses and then digs in his blazer pocket for a little baggy of baby blue powder. I recognize it at once as Euphoria, the same substance I'd planted on his son only a couple weeks ago .

The contents of the baggy are emptied into the drink on the left.

Nyssa's drink.

"For some added fun," he guffaws.

The same oafish guffaw as his son.

My grip tightens on the large kitchen knife I've grabbed.

For another unpredictable second, I almost rush him from behind. I'd love nothing more than to ram the blade into his back. Then his skull. Then any other part of him as he collapsed and looked up at me, dying.

But too many questions remain unanswered.

Questions like what the hell is Nyssa doing here in the first place? What is about to transpire between her and Mr. Wicker? Has she been sleeping with her ex-boyfriend's father all along, or is this some new development? Some kind of revenge ploy?

I creep from the kitchen, sight unseen. Mr. Wicker's now mixing the cocktails he's made in his stainless steel shaker. Nyssa's presumably still in the bathroom ‘dolling' herself up. I enter the master bedroom that's about as large as the living room area. A king-sized bed sits in the middle, along with a reading nook by the window and balcony.

Turning left toward the bathroom, I realize Nyssa's left the door open. She's done changing, donning some kind of girlish costume.

She's put her hair up in hasty pigtails and slipped on a pastel pink babydoll dress that barely covers her backside.

Thigh high socks and black Mary-Janes complete the strange, childish yet sexual look.

Is this what Mr. Wicker requested? He's having her dress up like a little girl ?

She spends a second longer hiking the socks further up her thighs, hardly paying attention to her surroundings. If she did, she'd see my reflection in the mirror as I flit by behind her.

I'm back to retreating, sliding open the mirrored closet door and stepping inside. It glides back into place just as she's wandering past.

Now that she's dressed, she leaves the bathroom to set the scene in the bedroom.

I crack open the closet's sliding mirrored door and watch as she places a stuffed teddy bear at the pillows and pulls out a wooden paddling brush.

…what the fuck is going on!?

Nyssa misses me as I make my next move. I slip out of the closet and dart toward the nearby armchair. I crouch down in time to be out of sight when Mr. Wicker finally enters clutching their drinks. His pudgy face brightens at the scene he finds.

"Excellent, darling. You're such a good little girl. I made you a drink."

Don't fucking drink that, Nyssa!

I clench my teeth and grip the knife, ready to pounce at any second.

When Mr. Wicker tries to hand the beverage to her, she folds her arms behind her back and shakes her head side to side like a child would.

"My mommy says not to accept drinks from strangers."

He chuckles, endeared by the role-play. "But, darling, I'm not a stranger."

"Will you read me a story?" she asks instead, then she pats the bed. "On here."

The oaf has the same doucheface syndrome his son suffers from—at Nyssa's suggestion, his grin stretches ear to ear and his ruddy skin gleams as if he's been out in the hot sun. He laughs some more and then says, "Of course, darling. But I'd prefer if you drink up first."

"Story first!"

"Nyssa, are you going to be a good little girl or am I going to have to take you over my knee and paddle you?" he scolds.

I shift to launch myself from where I've hidden behind the armchair, then I stop.

Something else I haven't noticed until now has caught my eye. Along with the wooden paddle, storybook, and teddy bear Nyssa's set out, is a card that's been placed on the bedside table.

A black, heart-shaped card with white lettering spelling out Jackson Wicker.

Valentine.

It can't be what I think it is. Nyssa can't be…

That would make no sense. It would be impossible. More than impossible.

My head hurts trying to make sense of this development. The past aches inside me like an old battle wound that hasn't healed while the present seems determined to rip it the rest of the way open…

"I said drink up," Mr. Wicker growls, grabbing Nyssa by the chin to force the beverage down. "Bad little girls disobey. Bad little girls get punished! Do you want to get punished? DRINK IT!"

"I SAID NO!"

Nyssa jabs a defensive knee into his gut before he can make her.

I've emerged at the same time, appearing in the skeletal mask, holding up the large knife from the kitchen. As Nyssa knees him a second time, her gaze lifts to spot me coming toward them, and she screams .

She vaults over the wide bed to put space between us.

But she has the wrong idea—she's not who I'm after.

Mr. Wicker staggers, groaning with a hand to his gut. "You little bitch," he spits. "What did you do?"

Nyssa's eyes widen as she peers beyond his shoulder and finally realizes what's about to happen.

I tap Jackson Wicker on the shoulder and wait for him to turn around. Before he can even properly react, the blade comes down and stabs him in the chest.

Right in the heart.

His meaty hands fumble at the knife handle sticking out of him, his mouth opening and closing in sweaty, blanching shock.

Then he collapses backward onto the bed and his eyes go blank.

He's dead.

Nyssa hasn't moved an inch, except for the shake her body gives at the mysterious intruder.

Me.

I rip off the skeleton mask, aware how I must look. Questionable sanity—or lack thereof altogether—has begun to feel alarmingly normal.

"Hello, Miss Oliver," I say in my authoritative tone. "Care to tell me what the fuck you're doing?"