by A. M. Hooper
“I'm sorry, but I really must go,” Cephas whispered to me. I looked at his plate—he had hardly touched his food. His hand move to my leg under the table, lingering around the slit on my dress. He looked into my eyes.
“I'm sorry, Em,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. I felt lines wrinkle my forehead, manifesting my confusion.
“For what?” I asked. He stood and buttoned his suit, excused himself from the group with a nod, and walked away. Pulling a cell phone out of his pocket, Cephas began talking and picking up speed as he walked down the hall. I turned back to my food, curiously pushing it around with a fork. My dad sat back down.
“Where did Cephas go?” he asked, picking up his fork and returning a napkin to his lap.
“Oh, uh—I don't know.”
“He didn't say where he was going?” he asked, his voice accusing.
“No. It's not like I own him or something,” I countered, rolling my eyes. “He can do whatever he wants.” I set my fork down and stared at nothing while my dad returned to his food. Looking up at me every so often, he quickly finished and wiped his hands on his napkin, then set it on the plate. He sat back in his chair and I smiled slightly.
“You seem like a natural at this,” I commented, trying to forget about Cephas’ odd behavior.
“At what?” he asked. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water.
“At—this,” I gestured to the room surrounding us. “At all of this formal stuff. At home, we sit on the counter while we eat.”
“Well, Em, a long time ago, this is how I lived.”
“Why don't you anymore?”
“Kids change your life,” he replied, setting down the cup he was still holding.
“So you gave up all of the luxury for—me?” I asked.
“Ah,” he grunted, wiping his hands once more on his napkin. “I prefer the kitchen counter.” He smiled and stood from his seat.
“C'mon, I'm dying to see the new exhibit,” he told me, offering his hand. I stood without taking it, grabbing my purse from the table.
“Okay, I get it. You're stubborn—don't take my hand.” My dad smiled to himself, walking behind me. We left the dining area and walked down a hallway. Red velvet adorned the walls and gold, gaudy molding bordered the ceiling.
“Everything here looks so expensive!” I muttered, running my fingers along the wall. My dad chuckled beside me. “What?” I asked, intrigued.
“Your mother—she was always so impressed by expensive things too. I think that's why she first went on a date with me.”
“Why?”
“Well, let's just say my car wasn't like that thing you drive.”
“Which, by the way, I need to talk to you about. I am a girl, and I personally think I would be safer if I had a more dependable car.”
“Oh, really? Your car's not dependable, eh?” He laughed, jingling his hands in his pockets. “What would you like instead?” he asked.
“Well, I would prefer a Lamborghini,” I began, smirking at him.
“Doesn't your boyfriend already have one of those?” he retorted.
“He is not my boyfriend!” I argued, hitting him playfully on the arm. My dad stopped walking.
“Would you like to see this exhibit?” he asked, gesturing toward the opening.
“Sure,” I replied, stepping congenially through the opening. The exhibit was deserted.
“I wonder why nobody's in here,” I mused, not really looking for an answer.
“They're probably all enjoying the party,” my dad said. “But this artwork is striking. Come and look at this,” he called, walking toward a painting on the wall. I followed and stood beside him, admiring the painting.
“I think this is called etching,” my dad commented, running his fingers over the nameplate. “Bourdon—that name sounds familiar.”
“It's Cephas’ last name,” I whispered, looking over the artwork again. My eyes ran across the painting; they magnetized toward the lower right corner where Peter's head hung upside down.
“The description over here says that this is the apostle Peter. Attempting to avoid being mistaken as Christ, he opted to be turned upside down when sentenced to crucifixion.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Now that’s devotion.”
“That's what I said,” I responded.
“When?” he asked, peering over his glasses at me.
“Oh, I uh—I saw this picture a little earlier and Cephas told me the story behind it. It's kind of sad, don't you think? A man felt so guilty that he spent his entire life trying to reconcile one bad decision.”
“Oh, it's not that sad,” a deep voice said from behind us. We both turned to see to whom the voice belonged. A man in a suit stood facing us, gun aimed and ready.
And everything went black.
CHAPTER 11
The room was spinning as my eyelids fluttered open. A dark, misty light allowed me to see only a portion of what was going on. Raw cement floor lay beneath my feet and matching cement walls surrounded the small room. I shivered from the cold, though I could not lift my hands to warm my arms. They were stuck in place. My head was throbbing! Industrial pipes lined the ceiling. I counted the drips from a leaking pipe to calm my forever shattered nerves—water landed in a small puddle every three seconds. No other noises penetrated the stale air. I tried to stand but my legs wouldn't budge. What was going on?
“Don't worry, dear: the feeling will return to your legs shortly. You came out of that pretty quickly.”
I turned my head to locate the voice. A man sat on a chair not far from me. His hands hung clasped between his legs, and shiny, black shoes dressed his feet that stood still on the cold, cement floor. I cast my eyes to the right after noticing that I was sitting on a hard chair with no cushion. I wasn't tied to it, though. Somebody lay slumped on the ground about fifteen feet away from me.
“Dad?” I called.
“He won't answer you. He reacted a little worse to the tranquilizer than you did.”
“What? What did you do?” I exclaimed, still unable to move anything but my head. My voice was surprisingly loud considering my mind was taken over by absolute fear.
“Calm down,” the deep voice said. He had yet to lift his face forward, but instead stared intently at the ground. A half smile peaked from beneath the shadow of his head. “He'll be awake momentarily.”
I twisted my neck in the other direction; my head throbbed. I winced aloud, then heard a slight shuffle across the room. My eyes shifted to locate the movement. Somebody sat at a desk, suddenly still. His head was shaven and that jawline was undeniable: Cephas. My heart jumped in my chest. Surely he would help! But why was he just sitting there? Perhaps he was shot with a tranquilizer, too. But his hands were moving . . . What was going on? A few other men stood in a group by the door where the only light in the room pooled in a dim circle. One man looked familiar: the Englishman from the elevator. I saw his long sideburns. That's where I had seen him! The restaurant! What was he doing here?
“Em?” my dad muttered from across the room.
“Dad!” I shouted, turning violently in the other direction. The pain in my head was unbearable. It felt like lightning split through my skull. I had never experienced such a horrible headache. I let out a small yelp.
“Em—are you okay?” my dad whispered. Worry, doubt, and guilt were all evident in his voice. He still lay helplessly in a pile on the floor.
“So glad you could join us, Mr. Brickard,” the man in the chair began.
“How—how do you know my name?” my dad asked from his slumped position.
“Don't burden me with trifles, Mr. Brickard,” the man said, standing from the chair where he sat. He stood to full height, probably taller than Cephas. His face was very pleasantly formed, accentuated by his perfectly combed hair: it looked similar to the English man's. I sat staring at his face, although I couldn't have turned my head if I wanted to. The pain was so unbearable. I saw my finger flinch: I was beginning to lose paralysis.
/> “You're going to help me, Mr. Brickard. Do you think you can do that?” the man said sternly.
“Why would I help you?” my father spat. “While you are a very gracious host, I'm going to have to pass.”
“You will help me—if you value your daughter in any way,” came his reply. A small laugh escaped his lips. “And with your wife gone, she's all you have left, isn't she?” His voice was bitterly sarcastic.
“Killing my daughter wouldn't benefit you in any way. Then I would do nothing for you,” my dad argued, still lying on the ground.
“Precisely, Mr. Brickard. You're catching on. We wouldn't kill her. There are, however, many ways to inflict pain on an individual, which methods we are more than prepared to employ.”
“Don't you dare touch her!” my father yelled. I could feel a tear of fear run down my cheek. This was like some awful horror film, and I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared that I couldn’t even begin to think of a way to escape.
“Oh, how thoroughly predictable you are, sir. I was very much hoping you would feel that way. So you'll help us?”
“What do you need me to do?” my father asked feebly. The man began pacing across the cement floor, his feet clicking slowly on the hard surface.
“You may recall a machine you designed years ago,” the tall man stated. He spoke without much care, pacing across the small room as if he were rehearsing his day at work to his wife. “It proved to be a very useful device. You gave the designs to a friend, who sold the design to us. He built the machine himself—very smart man. Though I think you might be smarter,” he commented, turning towards my father. He looked thoughtful for a moment. I was watching Cephas out of the corner of my eye. He sat in his chair, his face a stone. He sat motionless, except for his hands, which held a cloth. He was rubbing something in the cloth between his fingers.
“However, after he found out what was really going on, he was smart enough to lock us out of the system.”
“You mean he didn't know about the betting?” my father asked from his newly acquired sitting position.
“Oh, no. He knew about that. His morals weren't that straight. No—he wasn't very happy with our management. He found it to be . . . unnecessary.” A cunning smile split across the man's face, his right brow raised in mocking Sinicism. His own self-admiration was disgusting. I was becoming more and more confused by the second. What betting were they talking about, and why did my dad seem to know about the immoral goings-on?
“But alas, whether it was necessary or not does not matter. He locked us out of the machine, and we can't get into it. Now he's dead, and we need you to hack into the machine,” he said matter-of-factly.
“But I didn't set a security device on the machine. I don't know how to break in.”
“Oh, but you're one of the best brains in the world, and you did, after all, design the machine. I think you can figure it out.”
“Why me? There's a handful of people who can do what I can do.”
“Ah, yes. But, you already know what we're capable of doing. Using you meant we could skip a step. You don't need—what shall we call it? Persuading? We'll give you three days, Mr. Brickard.”
“Three days!” my father exclaimed. “That's completely ridiculous.”
“Cephas, why is this man still sitting on the floor? What did you do to him? The girl already has full control of her arms, doesn't she?” he asked, ignoring my father’s berated reaction.
“Yes, sir. The tranquilizer had an adverse effect on Mr. Brickard. He should gain control in about four minutes . . . sir.”
“Cephas,” I muttered, paralyzed from shock if not from the tranquilizer. I hadn't meant to speak, but his voice was so familiar, which I thought would set some hope into my heart. However, it only made the situation so much more painful. The tall man turned toward me, a delighted smile on his face.
“Well, now, you remember Cephas, don't you?” he asked, victory evident in his voice. “In fact, you were dancing just a moment ago, weren't you?” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Never fret, my dear. You had no way of knowing. We don't have the best working for us for nothing.” He turned toward Cephas.
“Cephas, would you come put this man in a chair? I'm tired of looking at him, all slumped in such a helpless manner.” He walked back and forth across the room, an exaggerated sigh leaving his chest. Cephas stood up behind the desk, kicking his chair backward. He walked slowly around the desk, tossing the rag on the table top and shoving something in his pocket. He walked slowly over to my dad, looking rather dashing in the tuxedo he still wore. My breath caught in my throat as he walked past me. He glanced down at me with deep blue eyes. His usual smirk was missing; instead, his grim expression destroyed any hope I may have had at the sound of his voice. He held my eyes captive for half a second, then broke his gaze from mine and continued on toward my dad. He kicked a chair toward him and began picking him up off of the floor. It wasn't a very difficult task. His muscles flexed and my dad was in the chair, leaning against its back. Cephas looked around, then walked to the corner and picked up a piece of rope. He began tying my father to the chair.
“We have many people working for us,” the man began in explanation. “They all have various jobs. Cephas is special, though. Cephas is our—” he paused and looked at me. “Management.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “He takes care of any problems that may arise.”
“Problems?” I asked, slightly confused.
“Yes: problems. Your mother, for instance, was a problem. His own father was a problem, but we took care of that one ourselves.” My mother. I began to shake as I realized the implications of what he had said. My mother was a problem. Cephas took care of it. Cephas killed my mother? My body shook more violently as the anger welled up inside of me. But my father had said my mother was killed by a drunk driver. What was going on? Did Cephas really murder my mother? Everything I knew was disappearing. I could feel my arms trembling—at least I was losing paralysis. Tears of hate began spilling down my cheeks and I attempted to stand in all my rage. Though my arms had regained strength, my legs had not. I fell to the floor in an instant as a cry of shock escaped my lips. I heard a scuffle in the room and someone was at my side. I glanced upward and saw the Englishman. He lifted me back onto the chair and began strapping my hands to the arms of the chair.
“Did you enjoy the art, my dear?” he asked. His accent added to the sass in his voice, and I shook my head in disgust.
“Sir, is that really necessary?” Cephas asked, finishing the knot on my father's wrist. “Her legs are still paralyzed, and she'll be gone soon anyway.” His voice sounded cold, like it was a bother for anyone to take the time to tie me up. I felt an instant pang of offense. I began to realize that everything Cephas had said was a lie. All of it—the romance, the fun times, the love . . . I was a fool to mistake the rush of euphoric feelings for love. Romance was not love—it was a tactic employed by men to get something out of women.
“You're probably right. James, stop that. She can't do anything.” James stood, his body rigid with anger. He threw the rope on the ground and walked away from me.
“So, Cephas. I'm curious. How did you do it?” the tall man continued.
“Do what, sir?” he asked as he returned to his position at the desk.
“How did you get Emmaline and her father to come to our little meeting today?” Cephas thought a moment, patiently working with the cloth and the object he had removed from his pocket.
“Oh, it was quite simple,” he said, staring at the small object in his hand. “I made Emmaline fall in love with me, and then it was all smooth sailing from that point.”
“You what?” I asked, indignant.
“Oh, yes. Among other things, Cephas was trained in the ways of romance. Another reason you were the best choice for our plan,” the man said, pointing to my father. “Get to the girl, and the father goes along for the ride.” He returned his attention to Cephas. “But Cephas, how did you mak
e Emmaline fall in love with you while keeping your cover?” The man seemed intrigued, like he was listening to a bedtime story.
“Sir, is this really necessary right now?” Cephas was rubbing the object in between the cloth again.
“Humor me,” the tall man said, his voice revealing an edgy annoyance and a lack of humor.
“Romance is easy, especially between teenagers,” Cephas began, still sitting. He didn't look up from what he was doing. “You see, there's this theory that a person makes morality judgments based on proximity, meaning the nearer physical location of one person to another, the stronger the moral implications seem to an individual. Being that relationships require some sort of moral judgment, I figured the same rule applied. So, whenever Emmaline started to doubt whether I was indeed who I said I was, and was about to, therefore use her moral judgment to decide not to trust me, I would get close to her—physically, that is.” I could hear my dad struggling in his chair. I looked at Cephas in utter horror.
“So it was all fake?” I asked breathlessly, not believing what I was hearing.
“No, of course not, dear,” the tall man said from across the room. “It was all real—it just didn't mean anything.” He laughed menacingly, the hideous noise echoing through the dark, cold room. “Don't worry, he was just doing his job. And he did it rather well, wouldn't you agree, Emmaline?” I could feel anger building inside of my chest. “All of the other things—chance meetings, romantic dates, witty lines—he learned from his tutor, Fredrick.”
“Don't give away all my secrets, Dominic,” Cephas muttered from his position at the desk.
“Cephas prides himself on being a romantic,” the man said (Dominic, was it?). Cephas didn't respond, just sat polishing, so Dominic continued.
“Isn't that right, Cephas?” he asked.
“I pride myself on a lot of things,” he stated.
“Like your unwavering ability to kill people?” Cephas grumbled a response without raising his eyes to Dominic.
“But you're not invincible, boy,” Dominic argued.