I look up from the rubble of the roof that just fell on my head. "I'm sorry... Wh—what?"
"Xinastriasis."
"Yes, not that part. The other. The antibiotics."
"Yes?"
"You can treat that stuff with antibiotics? I thought viruses couldn't be cured."
He chuckles, politely. "It's not a virus."
Hell, I've never regretted leaving school when I was fifteen so much as I do now. I imagine they must teach you this shit in sex-ed or something. I got all my sex-ed on the road, and the teachers weren't, let us say, very "qualified."
"There are many sexually transmitted infections that can be cured rather rapidly with a simple course of antibiotics. Trichomoniasis, Chlamydia."
News to me, bro.
I feel my chest lifting.
"Gonorrhea was also once easily treated with penicillin, but there are new strands around now that have become immune to it. So, I will prescribe some antibiotics for you. I am obligated to inform you that you should cease all sexual activity of any kind whatsoever until you have completed the prescription, plus an additional seven days."
There's something about the way a German says "whatsoever" that makes you sit up straight and pay attention. "Sure."
"I am also obligated to tell you that it is recommended you contact any sexual partners before your last test and let them know to get tested."
I swallow hard. "I see. And what if I don't know who they are?"
His face remains stoic. "Do your best."
I get off the bed and take the prescription. "So, what is this Xins exactly? I mean, wouldn't I have warts or smelly discharges or something?"
He shakes his head. "It's a new strand of Trichomoniasis. It's simply an infection caused by bacteria which survive within the moist and warm areas of the respective sexual organs of males and females. It dies when exposed to air and saliva, so kissing and touching is OK.
"Eighty-five percent of people who have it don't even know it. It strikes one in three sexually active females and one in seven sexually active males. When there are symptoms they are generally itchiness in the urethra, perhaps a light discharge sometimes. It often disappears on its own as well. But it can stay in the body for some years if not treated. For pregnant women the risks are higher—preterm delivery or having a baby with a low birth weight. Which is why it's important you contact past sexual partners."
The roof crashes on my head again.
I need to make good with the world, I think.
"Even if you use condoms," he says, "you risk getting some of the sexually transmitted infections. Including the non-curable ones such as herpes, but the risk is lower of course."
"Thanks, doc." I shake his hand. On the way out, the young, Turkish nurse who looked at me earlier is smiling lightly. It's a flirtatious smile. Again.
If only she knew...
-2-
I call Frankie and tell him the cleaning is postponed. He's pissed.
I tell him why—that I need to be available to help Gen on a photo shoot.
He doesn't believe me.
I insist it's true.
"Oh," he says, "well have fun then."
"It's not like you think," I say to him.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah, but you're thinking it really loud."
"Oh, you can hear my thoughts now?"
"Like a jackhammer in my ear."
"As I said, have fun. Oh, and Axle, one thing."
"What?"
"Take the ring off when you see her." He clicks off.
Asshole.
CHAPTER 20
-1-
G.
Nov. 13, 2013 — Wednesday, Near noon.
Thomas texts me:
Thomas: I have model for you.
I call him. "Don't you ever answer your phone?" I'd given up on the no-calls thing and had called him several times already.
"I was working."
"I thought you weren't working for a month."
"I was working for you."
"Oh, I see."
And then I lay it on him. The plan for the internal brothel shots. If we get in.
"Sounds sexy" is his reply.
"So you'll do it?"
"Of course."
"Really?"
"Yes. Is risqué. I like risqué. Risqué is also French word stolen by the English, by the way.
"This will look good on my portfolio. But I decide since we last talk that I no show my big boy for the camera. Nuh-uh. I am not porn star. I did once, I don't do again. Only derrière, as you say."
I laugh. "Don't worry. I don't want to do any full frontal shots. "
"We need bodyguard to take shots like this in Red Light District. Men are crazy there. Sex on the mind. Like animals on heat."
"We have one."
"We do?"
"Yip."
"My God, either you are desperate or you are superwoman."
I'm desperate. "Let's do the bedroom shots tonight, your place."
"No problem. So why is it you call Thomas so much this morning?"
"Oh, right, I almost forgot. Lingerie, do you own some?"
"Yes."
"I figured. Is it...sensual?"
"Of course. Why?"
"I want you dressed in it for the Red Light shots."
"Hmmm, good idea."
"It wasn't mine."
"But...I am thinking now...ah, yes. No. We must go buy more. My lingerie is too stylish. We need more risqué. But you must come with me. You are the photographer."
"Is it because I'm the photographer or because you want to model a bunch of lingerie for me."
"Both."
"No problem, Thomas. I'll come with you as the photographer!"
"Perfect. And I know just the store. German sex shop where all products are imported from France. Very nice store. Maybe we can get a toy for you, no?"
"Uhm, no."
"No?"
"No."
"A man can try. By the way, there is small catch with female model I find for you."
A catch? "Shoot."
"Shoot what?"
"I mean, go ahead, tell me."
"You Americans, you talk English worse than the French. So, about the girl, she very beautiful. She always 'ave trouble with her weight. She try many diet and exercise and never able to lose it all. She want to get into plus size modeling and I think she is perfect for it. But she need portfolio. But photographer is expensive. She ask if you do full portfolio for her."
"Of course I would! I'd love to!"
"Yes, I thought so. I told her you are desperate."
I laugh. You gotta love the French.
-2-
I go home and do a backup of the shots. I quickly change my Dropbox password because I remember I never had time to do it before I left. Then I put a copy of the photos on there and let them sync online. I put another copy of the shots on a USB stick and put it in my denims pocket.
If I have one chance at this, I sure as hell am not gonna lose it because I didn't make backups.
I wait for the stuff to sync so that if the computer gets taken it's all in the cloud. I decide to mail Brooke because I have nothing better to do.
My email account is new, created the day before I left, so there shouldn't be any mails in there.
But there is.
One mail.
My throat tightens. My heart sinks to my stomach. I feel the sweat at my butt, inside my legs, under my arms.
My breathing deepens.
Subject: WE'LL FIND YOU, BITCH. MASON WILL BE AVENGED!
Sent on: November 11, 2013, 11:23 A.M.
Message: Empty.
I start emailing the investigator that's working on my case back home, the case of the threats I started receiving after Mason killed himself. Before I left the US I did tell her I was skipping town but that I'd prefer not to tell her where.
Because I was the victim, she told me I wasn't obligated to tell her.
I created t
he new email address from an internet café as the investigator told me to.
So, how does this person have my new address? Or is it "they"? I think back to the letters I received. They were always "we" letters. "We will get you" and "We're watching you" and "We know Mason would be alive if it weren't for you!" But the investigator told me this might simply be a tactic to make the person seem more menacing and that, in her experience, it's usually just one person.
I move my mouse over the send button.
I don't click it.
I tap my leg. Think.
I wanted to start anew. No connections. Forget the past.
I trust the investigator, but I don't want anyone to know where I am in case the information slips.
I try think rationally.
The mail doesn't indicate "they" know where I am. And even if it did, could a deadbeat actually pay for a ticket to Germany just to get revenge for a friend who wasn't much more of a deadbeat than the person sending the threats is? If the person who sent this is a deadbeat... Mason's friends that I knew generally were.
But still...
The investigator told me that friends of murder-suiciders can act all tough and opportunistically, but not actually create those opportunities themselves. As in, if you're walking past their house at night, they might spit at you. Or worse. But not if you're on the other side of town.
Her advice? Don't walk past their house at night. Stay as far away from them as possible.
That's exactly what I did.
I worked out to come to Germany on the spur of the moment. Within twenty-four hours I was on a plane to Lisbon. I was paranoid, so I booked to Lisbon and then took a train to Spain, then to France, then to Frankfurt. The train rides didn't require me using a passport. I'm not technically minded, and I didn't want to risk someone tracing me to Germany through my passport.
Too much TV? Maybe. When your life is on the line, you think a little differently.
But Mason did have access to my emails, the ones in my old account. I found this out just before I decided to run.
So it wasn't only too much TV.
Every time I'd change my password, he'd gain access again. This is what the investigator explained to me.
They found a "proxy server" in my house. Whatever that is. So he was "sniffing" all my internet traffic before it got encrypted by the mail program I was using. That's how he always had my password. She told me that checking my mail from home was a sure-fire way to have him be able to snoop it from there on out.
Apparently this was pretty high-level. "Man-in-the-Middle Attack" was another technical word she used for how it was set up.
She told me people learn things pretty quickly if they set their minds to it. I didn't buy it.
They found this "proxy server" thing a day before I left.
That's when I panicked. That's when the letters I'd been getting suddenly made sense. That's when I realized that my mail had been being snooped after Mason died! By someone I don't even know!
And that's when I decided to pack up and leave! Because now I knew the threat wasn't over. Mason might be dead, but he'd been working with someone. I knew that. The investigator told me not to jump to conclusions but I wasn't willing to risk my life over this. The investigation would continue with or without me there.
I take a deep breath.
The key question now is: How does this person have my new email address?
The proxy server was disabled as soon as they found it. And then I was told to change my email password for the old account and maybe even create a new one.
I log into my old account now and a see a mail asking me to confirm my "Recovery Email Address"! In that mail is my new email address!
What!?
It can't be. Could I have been so stupid?
I think back to the twenty-four hours before I left the US. I'd packed, gone to the bank and picked up cash. I'd been watching my back all morning. My chest was heaving, my hands sweating. The terror had grabbed me all day. The night before, I'd lain awake all night, jolted by every little sound, watching the door of my apartment.
I remember the internet café I went to in order to create the new email address and change the password of my old one. Which I did successfully.
Wait.
Did I?
Oh no...
Hot lead settles in my stomach now.
I think back some more. The internet café was a dingy place, lots of cigarette smoke in the air. I remember the skinhead dude in tattoos ushering me over to a computer, near the back, which looked like it was made in the nineties. A door with curtains was to my left. I remember noises from behind that doorway, glass falling. A slap!
A man shouted in a rough voice from in there. My hands trembled over the keyboard. I was typing in a false first name, false last name.
Slap! Glass crashing again.
I looked back. There was an Asian woman in there, on a table... His wife? His girlfriend? Someone else?
Looking back at the screen I saw the input box for a recovery email address. It said "Type in your current email address." It also said, "Optional Field."
Slap! A scream!
And then...
I was suddenly distracted!
"Oh, Gen," I say to myself now.
As if operating like a robot, overwhelmed by the fear of threats and new information about Mason spying on me and the girl in the back of this internet café, I blindly went ahead and typed in my old email address and ticked "Accept" and then "Accept" again, trying to get out of that place as fast as possible!
I looked in the room behind. The woman said, "No!"
The new address was confirmed!
I left!
"Shit," I whisper to myself. "I never changed the fucking password of the old account! Stupid, Gen! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
I remember running out of there fast. I remember telling myself I'd change the password as soon as I got to Frankfurt!
And I remember forgetting to do that.
As soon as I was out of earshot I called the cops and gave an anonymous tip. I waited, saw them arriving at the internet café. The guy in the back was taken into custody. The Asian woman was crying. But she looked safe. I was so happy for her that I...simply forgot.
I do it now, fast! I change the password of my old account! Whoever threatened me must still have access to it! Of course they do. And that's how they got my new email address. Because they read that "Confirm your recovery email address" email!
Mystery solved.
But does it mean they have more information on me? I peruse the mails in my old account. There's nothing in there indicating where I am now. I'd asked Brooke to not mail that account and she didn't.
Good girl.
I sigh in relief.
I realize, slowly, that the threatening mail was merely a scare tactic. So "they" have my new email address. So what? They have no clue where I am.
Whoever is doing this is trying to scare me. Same with the phone calls. And the letters.
It's not gonna work this time.
I hover over the delete button. I delete the mail.
I'll create a new damn address!
-3-
Just before I leave the gallery to go meet with Thomas and buy women's lingerie for him, I get a call from Brooke.
"Hey, hon. How you holding up?"
For a second I think of the mail I received. Except for that, I'm actually doing really well. I never told Brooke about the threats, only that I was destroyed by recent events. That I needed to get away from the memories. All true in itself.
"Actually, I'm holding up great since getting this opportunity, Brooke. It's keeping my mind busy."
"That's great, babe. Now look, do you think you could get things ready by Sunday? Actually, Saturday. Sunday you'd need to be in Berlin."
"Sunday? Berlin?"
"Yeah, The Hunter has discovered that one of the painters she's been trying to nail down for her more upper-class galleries is having
a meeting for a show there. So she's gonna intercept him and tell him she was 'just in the neighborhood.' Then she told me that, if we're in Germany, we 'might as well see your friend's work right away.'"
"Wow. That's only a four days away."
"Not quite four days. You'll need to be on the earliest train to Berlin on Sunday."
I gulp. "Well, I guess I have no choice."
"Sorry, babe. It's how she is. She's doing it on purpose, I think. She likes to work with artists that can produce on deadlines. She doesn't have time for people who 'search for inspiration.' Her words, not mine. So I think she's just going to Berlin to test you. But, like I said, her name on your résumé is like eternal gold in the bank. I tried to convince her—"
"No, Brooke. It's cool. I can do it."
"OK, sweetie. And pack for two days because you'll never make it back the same day. I'll be in a double room so we can get drunk together after!"
Drunk again? Urgh... "You get drunk, I'll babysit."
"Party pooper. You got enough money still?"
"Yes, thank you!"
"Well, just shout if you need more. So, what's the subject matter? For your portfolio."
"Male whores."
No comment.
"Brooke, you there?"
"Male whores?"
"Actually, it's more a statement on a woman's position in society. You know, if the tables had been turned over the centuries. What if the men had been the concubines? What if the men were the ones selling sex to women? Just to get people thinking. Do you think she won't like it?"
"Hell no. She'll freaking love it! Girl, that's just the type of shit she goes for. Because it sells. And if I know your work, mixed with this subject matter... Damn, those are gonna be some hot photos. But how are you...? Who—?"
"Thomas. He's my model."
She laughs. "You know he's probably just trying to get you into bed, right?"
"I know. But I also think he knows he won't be able to."
"Which is why he's dressing up as a male hooker for you?"
"Oh, hon, it goes so much further..."
"I can't wait to see them."
"I can't wait to transfer them from my head onto the camera. Hey, is Thomas bi?"
Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1) Page 11