NOCTURNAL
Valkyria DeDieu
Copyright © 2011 by I. Didier
Smashwords Edition
NOCTURNAL:
All her life, Jessica felt she did not belong to the two people she knew as her parents. Then one day she saw the face of a woman she had always dreamed was her mother…
That started a chain reaction. And before it was all over, the life Jessica knew was gone. But then, it had always been something other than real.
***
Acknowledgements: To Bob Wendorf, for the Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake recipe and the (well-deserved) title “Duchess.” To Julius Lewis, for excerpts from: Essays on the New Man, and his project to rename the Olympic Games.
Dedication: To Daniele, my own “Ananda”, with all my love, for an authentic Jessica... To Monika, dear heart, for Gladstone. And to all who have gone through it—an experiment like Nocturnal—may God go with you.
***
NOCTURNAL...
Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation... Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination… Silently the senses abandon their defenses...Phantom of the Opera’s MUSIC OF THE NIGHT, by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Chapter One: Nocturnal
No doubt about it, she was a creature of the night. Jessica dashed around, looking for her school things. Mornings were her worst time. Downstairs, her creepy parents were, no doubt, in the kitchen. They would cut off whatever conversation they were having as soon as she walked in.
She yawned, fretful with herself. Last night, she’d had another of those awful dreams. And her ick-factor mater and pater would know--because she was late. Damn! They would insist, too, that she visited the stick monster--that’s what she called the therapist they made her visit. Uugh!
Sometimes she had dreams where a mythical woman was her mother; that was a recurring one. Sometimes she fantasized that she was adopted. She had a roster of probable “parents” in her mind that she belonged to. Usually celebrities. Tina Knowles (Beyonce’s mom), for example, or maybe Bette Midler. Someone cool, yet tough, with a little hint of mystery, who had it all together.
Okay. As a senior, she wouldn’t need to visit the library to get a pass from that old prune to get into classes. She had deliberately chosen her first class, World History, with Dapper Dan, a teacher who never took roll until the very end, so even the marijuana smokers sloped in whenever they wanted just before the second period bell.
She charged down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hoping that she would break an ankle so dear Marge could put on any expression other than the false concern that seemed Botoxed in.
And as for Harry--his jolly little “dad knows best” was even more creepy. Their names were Luther and Lily, but she had given them sitcom names, since they acted like sitcom parents.
The one good thing that could be said about her parents was that they gave her whatever she asked for, as long as it was labeled under “School supplies”. It was like they had unlimited funds or something. She had maxed out the Amex for this year’s school clothes and they hadn’t blinked, with the result that she looked especially “fly” this brand new semester. Being the new kid was one thing. Being the rich new kid with cool clothes, great shoes and no acne was another.
So this semester she had a brand new iPad. She’d had the guys in Shop in the Vocational department invisibly laser her name--saying a silent apology to Steve Jobs, who had just passed away. But she wasn’t losing her iPad--it wasn’t going the way of her iPhone or designer school bag, which she had tearfully had Marge replace.
“Morning...” she sang. She saw Marge wince. Sometimes Marge looked at her as if she didn’t want her around. “Eat me” she always thought when that happened. Dad, on the other hand, was another story. He was just strange. On the whole, she thought she could better handle him than Marge. She shrugged. Who knew.
Her place was set with the same ol, same old. A cardboard cereal and non-Organic milk. Who fed their kids this crap in the morning?
She had TOLD Marge that she wanted almond or coconut milk if she couldn’t serve her raw milk in the morning--and that, as a protein type, she needed an egg. But did she listen? Noooo.
Her parents were rich, but they were the idiotic rich types. They filled up the Hummer with $90 worth of gas every other day, but complained about the price of food--buying cheap food, or once, when she’d complained, fake Organic at Walmart. She’d never do that again.
If she wanted decent food, she would ask her parents for money for any number of projects at school, and they would give it to her. No matter what outlandish amounts--it was all the same to them. It was as if, as long as they had her out of the way, but in check, they felt they had done their job. They never followed up on the so-called projects.
Harry was booming something across the table at her. “Had another one of those nights, eh?” He asked, watching her intently. Jessica shrugged, taking care not to splash her white Tee with the Coconut and Pomegranate water she was chugging. She pushed aside the plate. “Not really,” she lied, watching them both from under her eyes. “I was up watching Beyonce’s new video, online, and I kinda got into watching videos on You Tube.” She watched them visibly relax. Music kept her sane. Especially, old music…Like Dobie Gray, in that beautiful video, young, handsome and in his prime, outdoors next to a river, singing DRIFT AWAY...
Good, no stick monster this week.
She would stop at Whole Foods on her way in and get something healthy, she was stifling here--she had to get out of this house. Somehow she knew she was a kissing person, with better parents that’s what she would have done.
They gave her an “allowance” for the School Bus. That much they didn’t know--the school bus was free, but she wasn’t catching it. Ever. The school bus was just grotty, plus you had to be there at least 30 minutes ahead of a specified time, and you had to sit while dozens of others were picked up. She could have walked the distance and gotten to school on time!
Life was a land of choices. One of them was a shuttle, which came around every 15 minutes--stopped right at the Whole Foods, another came again 15 minutes later--dropped her right fifty yards from the school gate. It couldn’t get any better.
So she dashed out of there, catching the South Beach 25-cent shuttle to school--as was her habit.
***
Chapter Two: Out-running the Bullet
“All the other kids with the pumped-up kicks, you’d better run, better run, out-run my gun; all the other kids with the pumped-up kicks, you’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet.”
Foster the People’s song kept running through her head, surprisingly upbeat in spite of the pain it carried. But wasn’t that the same for all great song? Springsteen’s Born in the USA was anything but the patriotic anthem it was screamed out as by the yahoos who didn’t understand the meaning of the words--the depressing conditions that former veterans returned to when they got home after having done their “duty” and served their country.
The Future’s So Bright, Gotta Wear Shades by Tumbuk2 was another satire. It dealt with the high rate of unemployment, and looming shadow of war--but the message was so skillfully hidden that it was taken to be an anthem of optimism, instead of the pronouncement on life as it stood for many of the young people then.
Jessica knew that Foster the People’s All the Little Kids with the Pumped-up Kicks was a satiric commentary on what so many kids like her dealt with as American life: Empty home, absent parents, school an intellectual and cultural wasteland where bullying, subtle and outré, was par for the course, a gauntlet that you had to walk as permission to education for the skills taking you to the slow death of adulthood; except she also thought that too many times America was seen as having a certain standard to hold up to..and who says that there is one set way for all Americans to live? And that was part of the problem too. An invisible standard that governed people’s perspective, and lives everywhere--yet no one knew, or could tell you, how to LIVE it.
Everywhere else people stuck to tradition based on their roots, culture, background and traditions, only America felt that everyone, once in America, had one kind of way to live based on some 50’s Leave it to Beaver sitcom...
No wonder so many people felt they were failing. Instead of doing what was right for where they were, they all kept trying to be something they felt they had to measure up to be “American” and failing miserably, because the life portrayed on television and in the magazines did not exist--not even for the rarefied few who had the accoutrement considered necessary to the lifestyle. It was true what they said: “All unhappy families are unhappy in their own individual way.” She was testament to that.
Her family put the
“funk in dysfunctional” and let it stay there.
She
couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong. And it hadn’t been
that way all the time, either.
As soon as she thought that, she couldn’t breathe. A shadow passed over the sun, and she couldn’t even look up to follow that gigantic bird’s wings, and silent swoop of the air, because she was choking. She was going to die in the streets...
Bending over and holding her midsection, she gasped repeatedly, trying to clear her airways. She tried to remember her breathing exercises, to force air into her lungs. She bent to her knees...She knew how to handle this--she was taught by the therapist. The stick insect. Dr. Mindbender.
This was merely one of her panic attacks. She’d had them since her dreadful accident six months ago...
Someone was talking to her...One of the students attending the Art School right across from the Whole Foods had removed his iPod earplugs, and bent over her. Face bright red, she pointed at her throat and he took it to mean she was choking, delivering two sharp slaps on her back. When she didn’t respond, he did it again.
It was when it seemed that he would either bend her over to do the Heimlich, or attempt mouth to mouth resuscitation, that the panic at the thought of either distracted her enough, that she could breathe again.
“Th-Thanks!” She gasped out. He held out his hand to her and she grasped it like a drowning man, clutching at a limb. Holding herself still, she took in deep, shuddering breaths, while her rescuer stood around, looking concerned.
“Are you alright?” She nodded, vigorously, still catching her breath. Her rescuer would not go away, but hesitated, standing on one foot, then the other. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes...Yes” Jessica nodded. His concern evident, he looked her over, as she was now doing to him. Something was odd. She looked again, and then he was nodding at her, as if he understood.
His voice, manner, movement and dress, were that of a young man. Even his face was unlined. But as she looked up, she noticed he was completely grey. He was still nodding his head in comprehension.
“I’m prematurely grey--it runs in the family.” He ran his hand through his hair. She had to admit, once you got used to it, it was rather cool. Something completely original and unexpected. He held out his hand. “I’m Edward. What’s your name?” She took his hand, yet drew back a bit, feeling oddly embraced by his warm grip. “Jessica,” she said.
“Are you a new student?” He asked, nodding over at the Art School building, just across from them.
“I’m still in high-school, a Senior. And before you ask, I’m ditching first period so I can pick up something decent to eat!” It was the pettishness in her voice that had him cracking up.
“I hear ya--I never could stand the swill they served over there. What are you picking up?”
“Oh Whole Foods has everything--and not junk, either; they’ve got sushi, and some good salads...Even roast beef, and they’ll make a burger for you from grass-fed beef or buffalo. The choices are endless.”
They turned, as one to watch the lights change, then walked across the street to the Whole Foods.
Twenty minutes later, as Edward watched as Jessica took the shuttle to her school. When the shuttle disappeared from site, he walked away--in the opposite direction of the Art School.
Jessica got off, her mind in a jitter due to the mass of teenagers around her. She always felt paranoid, and vulnerable in a crowd. The pushing and laughing students made her discomfort level rise to fever pitch, and she let them surge ahead of her as soon as the Walk Sign came on; waiting until very last minute to follow, she walked a comfortable distance behind.
The lights changed on her and she looked up, alert for any cars that may be jumping ahead. The woman in the white Lexus did not move, getting a chorus of honks behind her for her good manners--and Jessica waved her a grateful hand, turning her face away to concentrate on the traffic. As she did so, a sense of the nightmare she’d had the night before returned to her.
An aching sense of loss...much like a memory, borne on the wind, with scents that are familiar, but long gone. Something about the face of the woman in the car...
In her dreams, she had seen someone with that face. In her dreams, that was the face of her mother.
***
Chapter Three: Exiting the Black Maw
“Day after day I’m more confused…But I look for the light in the pouring rain…” Dobie Gray DRIFT AWAY…
He knew the bastard. Andrew was at Whole Foods, buying up an entire list of what Elissa required. He knew she hated processed foods, and that she, according to her dossier, was a protein type.
He needed to investigate further, because frankly, this was all news to him. She was allergic to wheat and dairy protein, but was a protein “type?” That was a contradiction.
But she WAS a scientist, and a brilliant one. Therefore, her perspective merited consideration.
And it was there he
saw something which reminded him of her.
A movement, similar
in grace. An affectation of hers, that she didn’t even know she
possessed. Peculiar, a hand movement, where she lifted her forearm
from the elbow, tucked into her side, and twisted her wrist, while
she spoke...And there was laughter. He had never heard Elissa laugh
but if she did, it would sound like that.
He stood still, at the bulk bins, arrested at the sound and sight. The young woman, when she turned was not familiar to him, and with the exception of very curly hair, like Elissa’s was different in appearance, being much fairer in skintone, and having a different bone structure. A kid.
But he knew the bastard with her. Coincidence in this game...
What were the odds he would see Franklin here? Franklin was an oddity. He was a death merchant, someone who did wet work for a price. He had once worked for the CIA, carried their bona-fides and still had contacts--but no one in the Intelligence community had heard of him in a while.
Andrew turned away, deep in thought, and made his way to the front with his purchases. Luckily, he could use the “ten items or less” register.
This turn of events bothered him. Franklin, here of all places. With a young woman who looked the spitting image of Elissa. Was it an omen--of Elissa’s fate?
His gut told him there was more to it. There was deep game being played, which he wasn’t prepared for---a cave dive and he hadn’t the proper equipment. People who went diving and were unprepared drowned. People who met up with Franklin died.
Andrew was one of the lucky ones. He’d seen Franklin in action once--and lived...
...“Cardboard and stencil” Franklin was wearing all black and stood perfectly still. He was preternaturally young-looking operative, deadly with any weapon, and silent. Andy stood back, looking at the face Franklin had brought up on the computer.
“It’s a cardboard and stencil ID, enough to get him into the country, so that he could take his purchases back to Dubai with him, without any record of him having been here.” Franklin reiterated. “This is our best opportunity. We have to take him out.”
“Not until we get the go-ahead.” Andy insisted. He had to admit, the differences between the two photos were superficial enough that it could be the same man. Still, he could not in all conscience, kill the man without confirmation.
“The auction is tonight. We can move in then. We’ll have confirmation.” Franklin’s recommendations were usually accepted, before or after the fact, to such an extent, that asking permission was a formality. That was understood. His appearance on any mission meant death was in order. Either the mission had gone sour, or had such a high potential to go sour that it was considered a foregone conclusion.
This one had FUBAR written all over it. Just the two of them against whole army, and bodyguards...throw in armed buyers, elite, wealthy businessmen mainly Arabs, but also others from around the world, and a bunch of women, most of them too drugged to do anything to help except make hostages--and it was textbook.
It was night in Paris, and the Armenians were moving in a shipment. It was a cargo of women to be put up for auction.
It was decided that Franklin would go in as a potential buyer, while Andy would take the place of one of the guards, bringing in the woman. It was not their mission to rescue any of the women; the sex-trafficking trade was a low priority. Resources weren’t expended on saving the girls, but that trade often attracted the targets that were high priority: Arms dealers, Terrorists and Drug Traffickers. Something about sex and women--made normally paranoid men drop their guards.
Andy was worried. One thing about Franklin was that he loved wet work. He’d get a thrill out of killing. He looked at his watch. It was 9:08, the auction had already started.
He averted his gaze from the terrified girl, whimpering near him. She was out of it, too far gone even to realize what was going on. Her family and friends would never see her again--but for him to take her away from this would compromise the mission. Abraham was their target. He was associated with Qaddafi, and was a liaison with a host of other known terrorist groups, wanted for questioning by the USA in a bombing of an American embassy.
The quiet was shattered by a burst of bullets. Andy heard French, and the guttural accents German, and Farsi, of Arabic and Armenian around him: “Il est mort! Il est mort! C'est quoi ce bordel! When Andy rushed in, a scene of horror met his eyes. Franklin had decided to handle the situation with his usual dexterity, and flair for the economic.
In the central room, where the bidding was taking place, five of the girls, all of the guards, all buyers including Ibrahim Al-Abn, were dead. It was a massacre. Franklin was gone.
It didn’t matter later when Andrew learned that Franklin target--Ibrahim, had really been there, along with his second in command. Anyone nonessential around Franklin when he made his move was collateral damage as far as he was concerned.
One thing was certain. Whoever was with Franklin was in danger.
***
Andrew kept an eye out for Franklin, and the girl. When the cashier rang up his purchases, he slid his credit card, and as they were waiting for the approval, he reached across and took a Wall Street Journal.
“Lucie,” he said, reading her name tag, “would you add this on for me?” She was a short, cute black woman, wearing no make-up at all, so the clarity of her cocoa-brown skin showed in contrast to her thickly lashed, deep brown, large eyes, and high cheekbones. She gave him a saucy look: “Well...” as if considering the matter. Her eyes were teasing. Andrew chuckled, liking her sense of humor.
Franklin and the young woman were now waiting at the deli, evidently something was being prepared for them there.
Andrew went walked outside, unhurriedly, carrying the paper in his hands, so he would not inadvertently put it in the trunk with the rest of his purchases. Turning around to make certain that Franklin and the female were not yet outside, he slammed the trunk shut, then hurried over the tables outside the Starbucks next door, where he sat with the newspaper. He had excellent vision.
What he wanted was a good look at the car they were using--and he had an excellent vantage point. He was exactly between the two exits from the Whole Foods parking lot. Both fronted an East-West road, 10th Street, which one would have to take to go either to West Avenue, or Alton Road. He would have a chance to spot the license plate then.
If he’d known the car beforehand, he could have placed a tracker on it.
Whenever Franklin showed up, everything went FUBAR: Fucked up beyond all recognition. He simply wanted to know if Franklin’s presence meant anything to his--Andrew’s operation.
Twenty minutes went by, and the laughing young lady exited from the store, Franklin in tow. Andrew’s stomach curled. She was the age of the young women that Franklin had murdered on the Op in Paris. She walked out, carrying her purchases, then made a right on to the 10th Street, and then another right on West Avenue to the bus stop where a line was waiting. A South Beach shuttle came on, and she jumped aboard, leaving Franklin at the stop.
Better and
better...While Franklin waited, seeing her off as the other people
climbed on board, Andrew walked over to his car, and waited...hands
tapping on the steering wheel, looking over at the entrance every now
and again.
No Franklin.
Finally, he got out, walked over the bus stop, turned, and looked both ways.
Franklin had
disappeared.
***
In the movie BULLETPROOF MONK, the lead character, confronting yet another version of the hydra-headed Nazi resurrection, was shown a gun, and asked: On which end would you prefer to be, delivering, or receiving ?
When given a choice, he could always choose to be on the “delivering the bullet” end of a gun.
Always.
***
Chapter Four: Who is Franklin?
Franklin was one of those people who always got it right—the first time. He never gave anyone else a second chance to steal the march on him. It occurred to him, standing at his vantage point—the corner where he stood, watching the girl’s usual morning routine, that if more people were like him, the world would be a much more efficient one. Less amusing, certainly, but more—orderly.
He eased off his perch, the steps to the apartment building next to the School of the Arts, that gave him a clear view of the Whole Foods supermarket where Jessica religiously came by, everyday, to get what he supposed was breakfast as well as lunch before she took the second shuttle on the way to school. Her panic attack the other day had been a curiosity, something that he had dutifully called in and had been asked to check up on.
Jessica was very valuable to the scheme of things. She was a weapon of last resort, a valuable tool in the persuasion of someone in the clutches of an elaborate machination that she knew nothing about. Pity. He always loved the look people got when they viewed their demise. It was well-worth waiting for. The process, the final, terrifying realization and gears clicked, and everything came together for them, the second before it all came crashing down…
Sort of like what Andy wore on his face last night…He paused, face set. Andy. Last of the good ol’ boys. They would slit their throat of their mother in the name of patriotism, never mind that the effect was the same as doing it for the sake plain, pragmatic greed.
Jessica jumped down off the shuttle, turning around to wave at the bus-driver, one of those black men who wore long braids in his hair. What kind of man’s hairstyle was that?
She looked left, then right, obviously searching for him, and he let her go inside the store before he lazily strolled across and entered it himself, going to the Deli and ordering Rotisserie chicken that would take at least ten more minutes. Eventually, he knew, she would find her way round to him.
When five minutes had passed, he looked around, and then headed back to past the butcher section, noting that she wasn’t there either. Sometimes she ordered her grass-fed beef made into a patty, which the people behind the counter then obligingly (nice of them) took over to the Deli to have cooked for her. He overheard her voice as he walked to the bulk bins, situated way at to the back.
She was talking to a long-haired, European-looking manager… “Thank you, Cyril” she was saying as he handed her a small bottle of a clear gel, obviously a cosmetic of some kind—and then she kissed him on either cheek. Franklin felt an urge to rip the man’s throat out.
She walked right into him, reading the label, frowning. “Hey,” he said warmly, letting his hands linger on her shoulders a little longer than was strictly necessary. “Franklin—good to see you.” She breathed. “I came in to get lunch, chalk it up to your healthy ways having an effect on me.” She smiled, then frowned, saying mock severely, “Good.”
She was wearing a chunky purple sweater , with a cowl neck revealing a light grey, shiny silk turtleneck that shimmered, catching the light, topping ripped jeans that showed a matching fishnet purple stockings beneath, and silver, calf length boots.
Her shiny, curly mass of hair was again done in an up-do that was a thick ponytail falling to her shoulders. She glowed with that distinct vitality of youth that only a certain number of women, blessed with stamina and no worries, or at least—no thought of worry—could keep up after their twenties. She smelled good. A hint of chocolate, black cherries and gardenia. The perfume was expensive—he could tell.
“You look good.” He said, surprised that the words came from him. “But then, you always look good.” He said this slowly, watching her under his eyelids as he poured his words over her, gauging their effect in her brightened eyes and red cheeks.
Her white teeth gleamed as she launched into a hurried description of the product she held in her hand to cover up her embarrassment. “This is pure vitamin E; good for everything, hair, skin, nails…this is so pure you could drink it, even if it is formulated for topical use. This is the real Vitamin E, you know…D-Alpha, it’s the best kind. Some of the drug stores carry the fake DL-Alpha, it’s the synthetic, very bad for you…”
Franklin, looking at her, felt something curl inside his belly. It surprised him. He did not know what that feeling was, had not felt it in a long time. He supposed that the day he had last felt this way was on his eighth birthday, right before his father went off to work for the very last time, before he was never seen alive again. He had received a toy gun and a GI Joe—it wasn’t the official kind, but it was close enough to mean the world to him then. Three months after burying his father his mother would marry a man who delighted in stamping the outline of whatever he could find—belt, bat, and once, a chair, into his flesh.
It would be six years before he could kill him, and spend the next four in a Juvenile Center. Still, he had learned valuable lessons there. And no one could say that he had not been a fast, thorough learner.
Looking at Jessica, someone that he, in another life, looking at from the perspective of a real teenager, would have envied, with her easy spirit and cool clothes and things, he knew what she was caught up in was worse than she had ever faced. At least, what he had experienced he had done with his eyes open.
Jessica was asleep and didn’t even know it. Worse yet, if it came to that, he would be responsible for making that sleep one of eternal duration.
He smiled. Pulling her in, he kissed her on her nose. Her softness overwhelmed him. He felt an urge to protect her. She was looking at him, blinking her eyes. Impatient with himself, was about to grab her hand and walk away, pulling her in tow, when she did something that utterly astonished him.
She yanked on his shirt, leaned him, and kissed him full on the lips.
She tasted of something that was a mixture of cinnamon, roses, honey and crème, he was sure of it, as he licked his lips experimentally. She didn’t stand around to talk. Before he could blink, she had walked off—and he was in tow, instead.
Enjoying the sway of her walk, the swing of her tiny waist above an sweetly curved derriere, he shook his head, following her.
“Wait up, Jessie.” He used the diminutive of her name automatically.
She turned frowning. “Let’s get this straight, Frankie.” Watching his eyes narrow. “Call me J, Lady J, or Jess—but NEVER, EVER Jessie. It’s JESSI-CA, alright?”
She had called him Frankie deliberately, he knew. He smiled, crossing his arms. “So it’s like that?” She leaned on her toes, adding an inch to her height. “It’s like that. Got a problem?” He unfolded his arms, spreading them wide, palms upturned. “Got no problem here”—she turned away, satisfied, before he continued, “—crazy woman.”
She rounded on him and punched him in the arm, pulling back slightly, showing surprise at how densely packed his muscle was. “You are so buff!” she exclaimed, squeezing.
“What’s with the tone of surprise?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, enjoying the give and take.
“You don’t look like the…” He finished for her, “the six-pack ab type? Wanna see?” He acted as if getting ready to lift up his t-shirt. Jessica looked horrified.
“Don’t even think about it?” She hissed, turning her head first left, then right, looking around.
“Some other time then,” Franklin fake-leered her, lifting and waggling his eyebrows
exaggeratedly. She burst out laughing and they walked over in enjoyable companionship to the Deli Counter, where she ordered a shrimp salad, some green peas and Quinoa.
Franklin picked up his whole rotisserie chicken and an order of the Quinoa. On their way to the cash register she stopped and snagged a bottle of Kombucha, and he did too.
“Would you like to do something later?” He asked, knowing the answer to that already, but he judged that, at this stage, a typical boy Jessica’s age would ask that question. She shook her head. “No, it’s a school night and I’ve a heavy AP Math exam. Plus I’ve got to see my therapist—the stick insect, Dr. Mindbender…”
Franklin was immediately amused at the irreverent reference. “A therapist? What for?” Jessica pulled her tiny ears forward, they looked elf-like, but tiny, and showed him some scarring.
“I had a terrible accident some time ago. Lost most of my memory—localized amnesia; they’re helping me cope and trying to help me get it back.” She walked off. “Thank God it wasn’t complete amnesia. I can still do everything I used to, I just don’t remember pieces of my life.”
“And this doctor is helping you?”
Jessica stood still. “No, he isn’t.” She said frankly. “He’s creepy… But my parents insist, and they pay the bills…” The shuttle was coming up, stopping at the lights and they had to run to the stop. Forty seconds later it caught them, and the door slid open. Jessica went in, and he waved her off.
He was being sucked into her charm, there was no denying it. There was no denying either, that he could still kill her if he had to.
***
Jessica sat down and opened up her bag, checking to make certain the iPad’s camera aligned with the hole she had made, then embroidered around. She wasn’t sure of it , but she had an achy feeling in her stomach, whenever she thought of going to the therapist. Her parents would hear nothing of her changing therapists, but she suspected there was worse than they knew going on.
At least this time, she would catch he was doing to her on camera.
***
Chapter Five: Candlelight Vigil
Franklin
was-- in this game--as old as time and older than dirt, and so
it was with a great deal of surprise that he found his mind dwelling
on Jessica.
It wasn’t that she was young.
She was
fresh, and unspoiled. And in a business where even the operatives who
played fresh were jaded, it was a pleasant
homecoming.
Staying close to her was not going to be a
problem. He would have something quite the opposite, if he let
himself, he could lose objectivity. It was interesting to mull on
such a possibility in the abstract, since it had never happened
before. In fact, implacability was such a trademark of his, that his
conclusions were never second-guessed, never doubted, never objected
to.
It was a heady thing, power...
If you would want
to have perfect power, provide the perfect service, and before you
know it, those whom you serve will bow down to you, in expectation
and need of the provision of such services. He had started as the
perfect weapon, now he held the hand that once wielded him.
The
panic attack he had seen on the street indicated some critical
anomaly with the program, but in itself, did not threaten it. That
was his decision. It had been made, and he would not even have
to dig all that deeply to realize, as soon as he had looked at
Jessica.
Something called at him for the preservation of
someone who carried such a face, and its outlook on a world, barely
worthy of its regard. Its destruction would be an irrevocable
loss. Ironic that his destruction of countless lives rendered
him perfectly capable of the preservation of this one.
When he
made the call for life--or death, it was never questioned. It was
accepted unstintingly as the right call for the mission...His record
bore proof of that. Where he recommended termination, it proved to be
the best solution. Where he recommended continuation, it proved to be
the ideal conclusion.
Certainly intellectual curiosity may
have played an infinitesimal part in the complex matrix of summations
and possibilities running through his mind...why does a cat play with
a mouse? Perhaps to see if there was a hint of a chance that the
well-and-truly trapped mouse could make a break for it--and succeed,
against all odds?
The mouse is toyed with, until the feline
becomes tired of the game. When that threshold is reached, then, it’s
over. But within that latitude there lies the slimmest, minutest
slip-between-the -cup-and-the-lip moments, when the cat gives the
mouse an illusion of freedom...
And poor thing, actually
believing...
Makes the cat live some of his keenest moments of
pure pleasure...Seems almost unfair, doesn’t it? That predators get
both the pleasure and the prize...of the hunt?
***
“You hear them moaning, their lives away, til you hear, somebody saying…”That’s the sound of the men, working on the Chain Gang…” Sam Cooke CHAIN GANG
Jessica’s stomach ached, the way it always did after a session with Doctor Mindbender. Her mouth felt dry and strange—medicine-y. Her parents, who had brought her, then left, to return after the two hour-session, did not seem particularly concerned about her at all. Good ol’ Marge and Harry.
Not once did they comment on how quiet she was...
She wondered if it were possible to feel no connection at all to people who bore you, who were responsible for your presence on earth, even if you had known them all your life. She wondered if something was wrong with her.
She wasn’t a cold person—far from it. So why did she feel so distanced from them? They were like adult versions of Children of the Corn, hollow, like paper cut-outs; so perfect and correct in manner you would have thought they had studied a manual., that said A. Parent B. does this. B. At this point, Parent B. does that. The IKEA Parent Kit, partially assembled.
She felt truly miserable. Worse yet, “Father Knows Best” Dad was looking at her in the rear-view mirror, she could sense his gaze on her and it wasn’t friendly, more like—avid. Mom as usual, was lost in whatever world that Botox introduced to your brain after it slooped all expression off your face.
She needed to retch—badly. “Stop the car.” She said, trying to breathe deeply to stem the rising tide. They did not hear her—or did not want to. “Stop the damn car!” she yelled.
“Jessica!” her mother snapped out, disapproval apparent all over her posture.
“I feel sick.”
“Luther, stop the car.”
Turning the next corner, her father turned in on a corner parking lot as Jessica’s trembling hand found the handle, opening the door, and rolling outside. Not a moment too soon. She vomited, all over the base of a parking meter. Her stomach roiled and clenched, and sweat broke out on her forehead. The pain of the cramps was only exceeded by the foul taste in her mouth. She found herself shuddering all over, flu-like, and she retched again. And then again, holding on to her middle.
She was first hot, then cold.
Gradually, she began feeling better. Her throat was scratchy with sour bits of food, but the stomach cramps had eased. She rolled back into the car, on the seat.
“Here.” Her mother passed her a sani-wipe, which Jessica used to wipe her forehead, the acrid smell and the cool feel bringing her relief.
“I meant you to wipe your mouth and hands! Get rid of the germs!” Her mother bit out severely. She put the entire container into her hands. Jessica pulled out a wad, wiping her hands and mouth, then looked down at herself, checking for vomit stains. Luckily, she had none.
Closing her eyes wearily, she tried to think back to her session with Dr. Mindbender and Nurse Krachit—but for the life of her, she could not remember a thing. She remembered going into the office. She remembered waiting for her appointment. She remembered entering into his consulting room, sitting down, refusing a drink and then—blank.
She was so scared. Was this normal? She had been told that after a severe trauma such as she had experienced after during that car accident that she would have lapses, losses of memory, times where she would be fuzzy about details…But she could remember her classes very well, and other details. Ironically, Dr. Mindbender was supposed to be helping her to piece back her life together, but it was the sessions in his office that were vague.
Her parents were talking to her. “What did you have today? What did you eat? Did you have that sushi, from Whole Foods? They’re not a Japanese restaurant, you know…”
“For goodness sake, Mom! I had a shrimp salad!”
Her mother looked meaningfully at her father. “Oh well, a shrimp salad,” she mimicked meanly. “Just how old was this salad? Did the container come with an expiration date?”
Jessica sighed. “Mom, it was not the salad. The salad was fine. If it had been bad I would have gotten sick at school right after eating it.”
“Then what is it? Is it the flu?”
“It’s not the flu!” Jessica yelled. “It’s not anything like that…”
Her mother turned back around and settled herself into her seat as if to give emphasis to her words. “Then I don’t know what it is…maybe a trip to Doctor is in order.”
“That’s just the problem,” Jessica muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
“No, you said something; speak up, so we can hear you.”
“Oh, now you want to listen to me.” Jessica bit out, savagely.
“What does that mean? Are you having a breakdown of some kind?”
“Yes, Mom, I see a psychologist every week, and conveniently I’m having a bout of psychosis. Why don’t you just call them and have them show up with a straightjacket, that will take care of all your problems, won’t it. “
“What is she talking about?” Her mother addressed her father. He was lifting his shoulders, and Jessica could not tell if he just didn’t care, or didn’t know. Perhaps a combination of both. His noncommittal grunt sealed the deal.
Jessica’s head rolled from side to side as she lounged in the car, tired of it all. They were deaf to her. For as long as she could remember, they never heard a word she said. She closed her eyes wearily, dozing a bit, until the car came to a stop.
“Here we are.” Her mom chirped fake-cheerily, Stepford-wife like.
Jessica looked at her with acute dislike. Her father opened the door. “Hop out, Jessie. “ She hated that. She hated being called Jessie by him in that way of his... Worse than even her mother, she hated his avuncular, never-seeing, never-knowing anything. What had she done in a previous life to deserve such stooges?
Hoisting her backpack on her shoulders, she walked up the stairs as soon as they had entered the foyer. She was a quarter of the way up when she announced; “I am not going to see that Doctor anymore.”
Her parents stopped, turned. Her father’s face changed into a look like thunder. “Let me make this clear, Jessica, you are going, and you will go, every Thursday, like clockwork—understood?”
He radiated a menace she had never seen before and she shivered. It became all too much.
“He is making me sick!” She screamed. “Something he is giving me is making me sick!”
Her parents reaction was totally unexpected—both of them looking at each other for a long, long time, so much so that Jessica thought she was forgotten, and she was, because they both turned around, and left as if she had just become invisible.
***
Her parents were worse than pod people. Jessica hugged her knees to her chest, rocking in order to keep from crying. She had never felt so alone in her life. After her accident, where she had forgotten most of her friends and other details, she had comforted herself with a rich, layered, textured fantasy life, reassured that she would soon remember what she needed to so that she could resume her life.
Hospitals were depressing. Plus they were germ factories. She had been happy to be coming home, even if it had been unfamiliar, happy to resume whatever passed for normal in her life, happy to be surrounded by some semblance of control…
Now she didn’t know which way to turn. As she watched the video on her iPad, she was filled with a sense of dread, rage and violation. What she glimpsed there went beyond all the bounds of decency, and she was sure that no licensed psychologist had a right to do that to her.
She turned up her headphones, listening more intently…
“Jessica, where are you?” Stick Insect, Dr. Mindbender, was asking in that faux-kind voice that was so phony, she could not understand why no one else seemed to see through him. His syrupy voice had always made her stomach roil…
Dr. Mindbender was a very tall, very thin man of Mexican heritage, pink-brown complexion with a full head of black hair that had artful white streaks in it. He obviously though himself good looking, ogling the nursing staff around him, sneaking looks at their body parts when he thought no one was looking. He was obviously, she knew, a sociopath. Cold, calculating, sneaky, with no moral qualms whatsoever.
And he was putting his hand into her pants while she was hypnotized by him. Although she had memories of refusing the drink—it was a lie. He’d put her under, and make her drink whatever it was that would make her act—like this: He made her take off her clothes, and show herself to him. He told her what poses to enact, and he took pictures. He made her touch herself, and then…URGH!
She ran into her bathroom, holding her stomach as she went through another bout of retching. She had to watch—she needed to see what was going on. Shaking, she turned on the faucet and washed her trembling hands, looking at herself in the mirror as she asked: “Dear God, why me?” The upchucking feeling overwhelmed her again and she bent over the sink, puking her guts out, all the while thinking that she needed to get back to her iPad.
She had to finish watching the rest of the video. She would need all the evidence she could to put the bastard away for good. Surely her parents could not ignore that!
Her bedroom door opened. She heard her mother. “Jessica? Jessie? Then, what’s this? Luther!” Her mother’s voice was frantic. Finally, some emotion. ..“Luther, come up here!” She heard running of footsteps up the stairs. Finally, some action…
Rinsing her mouth, washing her hands, Jessica came out of the room to be greeted by two pairs of accusing eyes. Funny, she had never before noticed how much they looked like each other. Her parents—each of them a perfect replica for the Civil Rights black families’ photos—her dad, generically good-looking, not too dark, not too light black male, natural hair cut short, a little grey around the temples, like one of those military recruiting posters of a black soldier…
Her mother—even more generic. A Condoleezza Rice-looking, speaking and acting once-professional black Corporate, University grad female, Conservative in her viewpoint, content with her place in the world…Why was she so different from them? What “sport” gene made her come out so radically out of place with who these people are, that she felt no sense of attachment or belonging to them; that she intuited they had no awareness of themselves, or the Universe as part of a bigger picture?
What was she thinking? They were right here—in front of her, talking to her now.
Dad was holding up the iPad threateningly. “What—is the meaning of this?” He looked ready to throw a fit. “You did this?” He asked incredulously. “You—did—this?”
Was he blaming her for something? Jessica shook her head, bewildered. Wait—he was not mad at Dr. Mindbender, he was mad at her? At her—Jessica—the victim? Her mind screamed with outrage.
Grabbing the iPad from his hands, she stood before him, defiantly. “YES! I TOLD YOU I DID NOT WANT TO GO, YET EVERY WEEK YOU MAKE ME!”
A slap! From her mother. Jessica held her face, frightened. Her mother drew back, and something like fear, disgust, and something else…something …was it—gloating? Crossed her features.
Jessica was in shock. The thought crossed her mind that this must be a dream. This must be INCEPTION…a dream, within a dream, within a dream…If only she could see a spinning top somewhere. If only…This could not be real. One of her nightmares. If only she could wake up!
Her father did not flinch at the slap. Instead he wrested the iPad from her. Jessica leapt at him, and holding on for dear life, they both wrestled, her mother standing, watching as if at an event. Jessica no longer cared. She had the feeling anyway that she was somehow, fighting for her life. She had to get her iPad, it was the only proof she had of the strange, perverted things that Dr. Mindbender was doing to her, instead of trying to get her memory back. She could swear, she would rather go to a home somewhere, with foster parents, than to have to remain here, if her parents would not side with her on this.
She would go right now, to the Police Station a walk away, on Pennsylvania and 12th Avenue—just walk with in and show them what was on this iPad.
She did not give a damn.
***
When Franklin’s phone rang, it usually meant that someone needed killing. He liked that. He was getting careless lately, however, because he had given his phone number to a mark. All in a good day’s work, however…he did not expect her to live much longer.
The girl. Jessica. She was bothering him. Like a burr under his skin—he wanted to cut, with a knife at the very spot where she itched, and pull her out, disposing of her for good.
He looked at his phone. Speak of the devil. He had given her his number because he was playing the part of a college student, and having two phones was bothersome, awkward, and would invite suspicion—and questions for which the answers was the wrong end of a bullet.
“Hellooo” he answered, drawing the word out, putting on what he knew a teenager would consider a “sexy” voice…”Franklin!” her voice was frantic, garbled. “You have to come get me! Come get meeee!” She wailed.
“Jessica—are you alright? Listen, listen to me. Are you alright? Are you hurt, injured in anyway?” She sniffed. “N-no…but I’ve left home and I need some help…”
Ah fuck. This did not sound too good. “Where are you?”
“On Lincoln Road—at Books and Books, just down from Frieze Ice-cream. Franklin, come now. I have to move around, I think they followed me. If they get me, they’re going to take me back to him—I know it! He’s no doctor, he’s a phony, and he did things to me…” her voice broke, and she started weeping.
Franklin, jaded as he was, found himself reacting and he was furious. When he got his hands on the fools that were running this op—
Dammit! “Jess—Jess—stay calm…stay calm, alright? I’m coming to get you…I’ll be there in 15 minutes. Meanwhile, don’t make yourself conspicuous…Can you buy a cap, and a football jacket? Do you have money?”
“I have my card/”
“Okay, go get some cash at the nearest bank, immediately. Your parents can have that card cancelled, so get some funds now. Then buy a boy’s cap, a wraparound pair of sunglasses—even if it’s nighttime, some high-tops and a backpack. Change in store, walk out, and go to where there are lots of people milling around. Do you know Set?” He asked, referring to one of the trendiest clubs on South Beach, where it was always packed, with a line around the corner to get it.
“Stay in crowds—hang around there, keep your eyes and ears open. If you see anyone that you recognize, don’t panic. Don’t make any sudden movements. Drop some cash on the ground and bend to pick it up, then edge away. Got that?”
“Y-yes.” Jessica replied.
“Good.” Franklin repeated the word softly again. “Good. Whatever happens, don’t go to any spot where you will be alone. At the very least, if they spot you, they cannot carry you off without a commotion, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” she said tremulously.
“Okay, now, when I come you can tell me all about what happened…”
“He touched me, Franklin…”
“He what?” Franklin was amazed at the flare of rage that coursed though him. That son of a bitch playing her father had violated her? He would die… “Who touched you, Jess?”
“My-my doctor, Dr. Mindbender, the one they send me to see”—Jessica gulped air harshly “every week…He puts me under some drug and touches me!” This was just getting better and better, Franklin thought. This was Roberto Pena’s work, he was sure of it.
No wonder she felt her parents were unsympathetic. They were! They were operatives like himself, and considering what was at stake, what was the life of one teenager in comparison? He felt sickened. The issue was, this one teenager could derail the entire operation. They didn’t care. These were facts. This was how it worked.
Worse yet, Franklin remembered once such time when he had thought like that. He remembered bodies of young women, used as collateral damage in the killing of a noted wanted terrorist, in France, that he had not lost any sleep over.
It was at that point that Franklin shivered, feeling something walk over his grave…This was déjà vu—his appointment in Samarra. Only this time, he was on the same side as the person on the wrong end of the gun—a dangerous place to be, if he wanted to survive. He had better flip the script here.
“Remember what I said—Jessie. Stay put. Stay low, don’t be conspicuous. I’m on my way. Anything happens, call me—just press redial and leave the phone on the line open.”
He then hung up and dialed another number. “Sparrow is out of the nest.” He listened patiently, a deadly stillness that had not crept in his voice, but had the person on the other end seen, would have served as warning to them. “I know you guys know. I am asking—back off. I will bring her in. Yes I know what she saw. What are you going to do, wipe it out of her brain?” he asked sarcastically. “Let me handle it. We have a bond. Get her parents off the ground, and back home.” He then paused. “No—No. Have them meet me instead, I have an idea.”
He listened as the voice on the other end asked him the pertinent questions. “She is at present on Lincoln Road. Have them surround her, but not close enough for her to see them. I will let you know when to move in…”
The voice made a suggestion. Franklin’s voice became even more quiet. “That—would be a mistake. And I don’t forget mistakes—ever. Now this is my op as much as anyone else’s. I’m in the loop to clean up messes or it’s my ass on the hook. I don’t care if they are seeing her now. Do not touch her…Wait until I’m in place and give the signal, understood?”
***
If only they knew how easy it could be for him to kill everyone. Franklin surveyed the four operatives, including the girl's parents who were surrounding her, just out of sight.
She was very smart, with good instincts. She stood, back to the wall, outside of the lines and out of the way of the people, jostling to get attention while waiting to be picked so they could mingle with the beautiful elite and feel special for the night.
Anyone who could truly afford the $10,000 VIP tables at Set did not stand in line. They were already inside. The people on the outside who were hoping to get in were the feeder fish for the sharks who were sitting around drinking Crystal and Ciroc Vodka…they were the chum that got thrown into the aquarium to feed the prized, expensive, important specimens.
One of the operatives was sitting on the bus bench, hunched over. Another was sitting at the restaurant next to Set, with a plate holding a slice of pizza in front of him. Two more were at the very back of the line, pretending to be tourists, trying to add some excitement to their evening. Her parents were right in front of him, in the dark doorway of a the construction project on the cover.
He approached them first. Luther glanced at him with acute dislike. “Why are you interfering? This is our end of it—we can handle things.”
Franklin sneered. “Oh really? I can see that. Whatever possessed you to act like an ass? Did you miss the part about what it meant to act like a parent? You could have played this a dozen different ways, and not ended up with this FUBAR on your hands.”
His wife interrupted. “I don’t think you understand…”
“No—I think I do. You see, I get the point of being accessible, and caring and approachable, which is why she called me, after knowing me all of two weeks, while she runs away from YOU, her parents—whom she has been told, she had known all her life! You dumb airhead—don’t make me shoot you.” His voice went down as he spoke and she edged closer to Luther.
“And you,” Franklin turned back to Luther—“do you know my reputation? I am the last person anyone sees when an operation goes sour.” He moved in. “ I am the god to whom they pray, asking to be spared. Do you really want to fuck with me right now? Do you? The cleaner? I have the authority to do whatever it takes to protect this mission, and when body bags appear, it’s a good day. It means I’ve done my job. And you know something? Dead bodies don’t talk. So they have only my word on it! You want to fuck with a man who has the authority to make himself the last, definitive word on how your mission went? On the chances of your success?” Luther went quiet.
Franklin did not give an inch. “I did not think so.”
“Here’s how we play it from my rule book, ladies and gentlemen.” He spoke to them for five minutes, watching one expression after another chase each other on their faces. When the female operative gasped, he gave her a look of impatience.