Project Pandora

by Aden Polydoros

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath, preparing herself for any unpleasant flashbacks that might return with the experience. This was different, she told herself. She was safe here. There was no way she would get into another car accident.

  Even so, she felt like she was riding on the edge of a razor. One wrong move and she would bleed.

  She leaned into him. “Ready.”

  The muffled engine’s purr deepened into a throaty growl, and they jolted forward from the curb. Her stomach plummeted, and then she surprised herself by laughing aloud. Why had she thought this would be scary?

  As they turned onto the street, the motorcycle’s loping engine vibrated through her limbs. It was jarring at first but soon became pleasant and soothing as they gained speed. He handled each turn smoothly, maintaining the bike at a modest speed. Her grip tightened as they cleared the first corner, the bike tilting to the side. After the first few minutes, she loosened her hold around his waist. Nothing would happen to her here. She was not in danger.

  The helmet blocked out the wind, but she felt the draft through her jacket and jeans. His hair whipped against her visor. She smiled, wondering how gloriously unkempt it would look once they reached their destination.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, stopping at a red light.

  “I love it!”

  “At any point, just tap me on the shoulder if you want me to pull over.” She couldn’t see his face, but from the rich warmth of his voice, she was certain he must be smiling.

  As the traffic light turned green and they surged forward once more, it suddenly dawned on her that she was at his mercy. She couldn’t climb off the bike while it was still moving. The helmet would hide her expressions and smother any screams for help. Nobody knew where she was going, and her absence wouldn’t be noted for another hour, when her family’s chauffeur came to pick her up.

  And yet, even as they entered a part of the city she was unfamiliar with, she did not feel afraid. If anything, just being in his presence eroded her anxiety. For once, she felt normal, untouched by the unease and irritation that had plagued her for the last two years.

  In a way, she felt like she knew him better than she knew herself. Every gesture, every wicked smile and smoldering glance he offered her, it was just so familiar.

  Minutes passed.

  Growing bolder, she slid her hands from his waist to his thighs, appreciating the firm resistance of his muscles beneath the denim. He was so strong. She would have loved to drive with him for hours, losing herself in his body heat, the pressure of his legs against her own, and the subtle, pleasant aroma his sweat had left on the inside of the helmet.

  Still, no sooner had she rested her hands on his hips than he turned onto a street flanked on one side by a wild fringe of trees and on the other by residential buildings. She looked around, gaining her bearings. Her eyes landed on a wooden sign across the street. Huntley Meadows Park.

  She realized at once that they hadn’t even left northern Virginia. She had thought he was going to take her through the District, but instead they had headed into Alexandria.

  Hades followed the road into Huntley Meadows Park. Shadows of trees passed over them, dappling his fair skin with the silhouetted impressions of moving branches and rustling leaves. The fall foliage was stunning against the overcast sky, with the forest canopy draped in all shades of burgundy, amber, and gold.

  At the end of the road, they reached a small parking area. Only two other cars occupied the lot, and he parked far from the others, near the tree line.

  He waited until she climbed down from the bike before getting off. His T-shirt rode up a bit, giving her a pleasant peek at his lower back and—he abruptly yanked his shirt down.

  What was that? As she stared at the back of his T-shirt, her anxiety returned like a frigid draft, raising the hairs on the nape of her neck. She had only gotten a split-second glimpse of his bare skin, just long enough for her to tell there was something wrong with it.

  He removed his goggles, turned to her, and held out his hands. Realizing he wanted his helmet back, she took it off and handed it to him, hiding her recurring apprehension behind a smile.

  “Did you like it?” he asked, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her skin tingled beneath his gloved fingers, and her unease began to recede. She decided the strange creasing on his back had been an illusion cast by the shadows and ashen sunlight. Not real.

  “It was a little scary at first,” she admitted, “but after a while, I had fun.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” After returning his goggles to the tail compartment, he retrieved her purse and handed it to her. “Do you want your backpack, too?”

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing valuable in it.”

  As she reached up to unzip her borrowed jacket, he stopped her.

  “Don’t,” Hades said. “You look sexy in it.”

  “But aren’t you cold?”

  “I like the cold.” Tucking his helmet under his arm, he looked around, smiling at the autumn splendor. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

  “I love it.”

  “I knew you would.” He took out his phone and opened it. “What time do you usually get out of practice?”

  “Four thirty.”

  He stuck his phone back in his pocket. “We have about twenty minutes before I need to take you back.”

  Hades held out his free hand. She accepted it, entwining her fingers through his. Her common sense nagged her that what she was doing was dangerous, but her schooling was overshadowed by an even stronger force. Part nostalgia and part intuition, it was a feeling that went far deeper than the countless vague warnings her parents had given her since the car accident. Rationality paled in comparison.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ve heard about this place. My mom hates mosquitoes, so we don’t do a lot of outdoor stuff.” Her mom’s idea of mother-daughter bonding consisted of getting pedicures and going shopping. The pre-accident Elizabeth might have liked those activities, but her amnesia had taken away most of her enjoyment. Now, she just found the outings boring, although she wouldn’t dare tell her mom that to her face.

  As they walked along the trail, a subtle transformation overtook Hades. He relaxed his posture. A warm smile softened his face’s hard edges, and even the tired circles under his eyes appeared to diminish somewhat. He seemed at home in the forest, as if just escaping from the District’s shadow revitalized him.

  Soon enough, the trees receded into wetlands. Dead cattails bristled from the stagnant water, producing an illusion of a meadow growing atop a lake. As she stepped onto the boardwalk that extended through the marsh, its wooden boards creaked beneath her shoes.

  He let go of her hand to wrap his arm around her waist. “I’m so glad I get to experience this with you.”

  “Me, too.” She leaned against him, listening to his steady breathing. The hard taps of his boot heels on the old boards pleased her almost as much as his palm’s warm pressure. Even his footsteps struck her as soothingly nostalgic.

  They reached the end of the boardwalk then turned around and made their way back to the parking lot. Twenty minutes passed far too quickly for her taste, and if the dance hadn’t been later that night, she would have been tempted to stay longer.

  The return trip was just as pleasant as the drive to Huntley. At 4:20, he parked along the curb in front of Manderley Prep’s gate and retrieved her belongings for her.

  Elizabeth took off the helmet and handed it back to him, then returned his jacket as well. She ran her hands through her windblown curls, wincing at the tangles she uncovered. Her hair was so fine—once it got knotted, combing it out again was as hard as trying to untie a web of spider’s silk without breaking it.

  “Now I can see why your hair’s so messy all the time,” she said, then winced. “Oh, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I like it, really.”

  She sat on one of the low concret
e benches near the fence. Searching through her purse, she found a comb and brushed it through her hair. On the third stroke, Hades touched her wrist.

  “Let me.” He set his helmet on the bench and took the comb from her.

  “It’s fine, really,” she said as he stepped behind her. His slim, agile fingers stroked her hair, gathering it back behind her head. His leather gloves did little to affect his dexterity. He slid the comb through her tangled curls, drawing out a soft murmur of appreciation from her. When he reached a large mat, he didn’t rip the comb’s teeth through it, but carefully worked away the obstruction. In spite of his strength, he could be so gentle.

  “That feels so good,” she said, closing her eyes as he effortlessly combed out the knots and snarls. “You know, you really don’t have to wait with me if you don’t want to. My family’s chauffeur should be here in just ten minutes.”

  “A chauffeur? Impressive.”

  She blushed, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Worried she had offended him, she opened her eyes, just in time to see his teasing smile chill over.

  He took a step back, keeping his attention trained on the tall woman who approached from the front gate.

  Elizabeth stood, her cheeks growing hotter by the second. Volleyball practice must have ended early.

  “I was worried when you didn’t show up for practice today,” Coach Slate said, stopping next to them. Looking from Hades’s wild, windblown hair to his muddy combat boots, she frowned. “But it seems you had other plans.”

  Elizabeth searched for an excuse and found herself at a loss of words. What if Coach Slate told her parents she was with him?

  “It’s my fault, ma’am,” Hades said, offering the coach a pleasant smile. “I kidnapped her.”

  Elizabeth winced. Okay, he was totally not helping.

  “I’ll see you later, Miss Hawthorne.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, then climbed onto his motorcycle.

  As he drove off, an irrational fear seized her, and she suddenly became certain that she would never see him again. A part of her longed to rush after him and drag him back, but by the time she stepped onto the curb, he had already disappeared.

  Case Notes 15:

  Apollo

  When Tyler opened his eyes, he felt like he had emerged from a baptism in the Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. He looked around at his surroundings, struggling to make sense of where he was.

  At first only the most basic details stood out to him, like the aroma of roasting chicken and the gleam of shiny appliances. He realized he was standing in a kitchen, but it wasn’t his own.

  As he grappled with how he had closed his eyes in the school hallway and opened them elsewhere, his attention was diverted to a weight in his right hand. He looked down to find his gloved fingers locked around the handle of a silenced pistol.

  A choked whimper drew his gaze across the room, and he noticed a young woman standing with her back to the kitchen counter, her face a mask of terror.

  “Please don’t hurt me.” As she spoke, she blotted around her eyes.

  With a jolt, he realized the girl was around his age, maybe even younger. Maybe another student at his school, for all he knew.

  He lowered the gun. He wanted to throw the pistol on the ground. He wanted to scream until he figured out how he had gotten here and why he had a gun. But his fingers refused to budge from around the pistol’s handle.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  His skull felt too small for his brain, shrinking by the moment. It felt like he’d been strapped into one of those medieval torture devices that, through the use of a turnkey, crushed the head between the arms of a vise.

  “How did I get here?”

  The girl stared at him wordlessly, her expression one of intermingled fear and confusion. Tyler had a feeling his face looked similar.

  “What…” What was I about to do?

  The girl began to edge away from him, glancing at the doorway, then at him, then at the phone on the countertop.

  Dazed, he pressed a hand against his face. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his home. This wasn’t school.

  So what happened?

  There was a phone call, he realized. And I answered it as I walked to my car. And then he said to me, “There’s something I need you to deal with, Apollo.” So then he sent me a text, and then…

  He couldn’t remember. All he knew was he was holding a gun. Who was he supposed to take care of?

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the girl said.

  Tyler swallowed hard, and his hands began trembling. Indescribable fear welled up inside him like oil from a crack in dead earth, a bubbling black pool that threatened to suck him down into it.

  A distressed keening pierced his ears, and he lurched back, struck a chair. Stumbled. Turned away from her.

  His gaze shot around the room, searching for an escape. The room seemed to grow smaller and darker by the moment, like a tank. Like a coffin.

  Breathing raggedly, his head filled with the shrill ringing, he fled from the room. In the front hall, as he passed a mirror, he caught a reflection of himself. Wide eyes, pale mask of horror, still holding the gun. The gun! What had he intended to do with the gun?

  Like an adjusting riflescope, his scrambling thoughts focused on a single goal: I need to get out of here!

  He rushed down the hall as the girl started shouting. He couldn’t hear her words, but he knew she must have dialed 911.

  Good. Let her call them, in case he lost himself again. There could be no more.

  If not for his own survival instinct, he might have put the gun to his own head. But he couldn’t, so he ran like he was being chased. Chased by memories, so many coming back to him: modern white decor; white house; bloody house; bloody woman lying on the floor, her blond hair matted with drying blood—and, oh God, he had shot her. He knew he had.

  As he ran, the floor seemed to rock beneath his feet, while the walls alternatively expanded and shrank back. He threw open the front door with such violent force that it slammed into the coiled stop and shook on its frame.

  He froze on the concrete step, blinking against the sunlight, so bright even though the sun had already begun its lazy red descent toward earth.

  For a moment, he was stunned by the light’s brilliance. He stared at the sky and thought, Where was I before this? Why can’t I remember? I was at school, right? Yeah, I was at school.

  Then he shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. There was no time to contemplate these things. He needed to escape.

  Where?

  The gun—should he dispose of the gun?

  No, he must go back inside and shoot the girl, then wait for her father and shoot him, too! And if her mother came home first or after, he must shoot her as well. There could be no witnesses.

  No! He must stop right here, right on the concrete step, inhaling the dusky aromas of the gardenias and roses. Breathe in. Breathe out. Bring the gun to his temple or into his mouth. Yes, his mouth! Bite down, taste the iron, and pull the trigger.

  No! Enough, just enough! His car. He had to get to his car. He must get this house out of sight and, by doing so, out of mind.

  Tyler looked around him and found the street deserted. His car was nowhere in sight. Left with nothing but his instincts, he followed a compulsion to the right.

  He sprinted past luxury homes and willows so great that even their gnarled trunks drooped toward him. He made a turn to the left, unsure of where he planned to go.

  All he knew was that he must get away. No more of this job, or the doubt, or even the pavement beneath his feet. All he needed was the smooth endless blacktop, then the highway when he reached it. Only then would he have time to consider his situation.

  Trembling from both exertion and adrenaline, he took another lurching turn at the street corner. He didn’t even try to conceal or toss the gun. He just ran.

  Ahead, he spotted a familiar black sedan. He reached into his pockets and found his keys, f
umbled for the right button. The lock clicked, and he threw the door open, sat down in the driver’s seat, and twisted the key in the ignition.

  He didn’t wait to buckle his seat belt before tearing down the street. He hardly even had the sense to drop the gun on the passenger seat, and after doing so, realized that its placement was just asking for an accidental discharge.

  Didn’t matter. There was no time to put it safely in the glove box. No time to stop at the stop sign or the yellow light that turned red the moment he sped through the intersection. No time at all, not for him, not anymore. It was over. He had failed the job.

  As he drove, his gaze swept senselessly to the gun, with the same inevitable motion of a flower edging toward the rising sun. When he looked at the weapon, a sudden image came to him like a vision, through the eyes of an apathetic observer.

  Tyler saw himself pulling along the side of the road, and he really did stop along the curb. He saw himself pick up the gun, and he did that, too. As he pressed the silencer against the side of his head, he felt the cold metal touch his skin.

  His finger edged to the trigger, but he didn’t see himself do it, because he was weeping now. His eyes squeezed shut around the stinging tears, and his body shook with urgent, choking gasps.

  You need to do it. You need to pull the trigger, and you need to do it now, before they do something worse to you.

  What could possibly be worse?

  You must do it.

  The tank. They’d put him back in the deprivation tank.

  The tip of his finger touched the trigger and stroked it with infinite care. He thought he could feel the inert destructive power of the gun as a vibration that traveled beneath his skin.

  “This isn’t you,” he said aloud. “You’re not doing this.”

  And he responded to himself: “But I need to do it. I failed. I need to do this.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I must.”

  “I can’t.”