Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  “I’ll be back from Japan on Sunday morning and we can talk again then. I don’t . . .” He paused, and his face showed a sudden tenderness that killed her. “I don’t want to make any hasty decisions. Because I do think it says something that you told me after all. You didn’t have to. You could have waited till after the wedding, or not told me ever. Truth be told, I wish . . .” His voice trailed off and he sighed again, the weight of it all bearing down on him.

  The sentence hung in the air. Sheila didn’t ask him to finish it.

  “We have an appointment at the Fairmont on Sunday at two,” she said quietly. “To finalize arrangements for the reception. Should I cancel?”

  Morris ran a hand over his face. “No. Wait till I get back from Japan and then we’ll decide. In fact, let’s meet there, at the Fairmont on Sunday. At noon. We’ll have lunch, talk, decide what we want to do. If we decide to postpone, at least we’re there to tell the caterer in person. We’d lose a lot of money, though,” he said with a grimace.

  “I’ll pay you back. I will.”

  She felt almost dizzy with relief. He’d said postpone, not cancel, and if we decide, not if I decide, and that meant things might still be okay. Things weren’t irreparably broken if he was using those words. Morris would never say anything to her he didn’t mean.

  Another tear fell freely down her cheek. He reached out and wiped it away. She grabbed his hand and kissed it.

  “I do love you.” His smile was faint and sad. “Maybe it’s not enough.”

  “Morris—”

  He pulled his hand away. “I gotta go,” he said, the words catching in his throat. “Sorry about your wall.”

  He didn’t look at her as he stepped past her into the chilly afternoon air.

  Sheila watched him get him into his car and drive away. She had no idea whether she’d done the right thing. Maybe all she’d done was transfer her terrible burden over to Morris.

  But, incredibly, it wasn’t over yet. There was still a chance she and Morris could work this out. Sunday at noon at the Fairmont. There was still hope.

  Her BlackBerry pinged from the floor where she’d dropped her purse. Reaching down to pull it out, she checked and saw that she had one new e-mail, sent to her personal account. She halfheartedly clicked on it. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw whom it was from. The message was simple.

  Subject: (None)

  Dr. Tao—I’m told you are looking for me?

  Randall Gardener

  Sheila’s heart leapt and she smiled for the first time in days. She might not be able to fix her relationship with Morris right now, but she might be able to help him out with his son. That she could definitely do.

  She headed down the hallway to her study and opened her e-mail program. She had a lot to tell Randall Gardener.

  CHAPTER : 12

  Kidnapping Sheila, Ethan knew from experience, would be the easy part. It was what came after that was always difficult. There were so many ways to get caught—DNA, trace evidence, eyewitnesses . . .

  The mind-fucking was officially over. It had been fun while it lasted. It was time to get to work.

  He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror inside his walk-in closet, wearing only a nylon skullcap. His face, neck, and shoulders had been dusted with talcum powder, an absolute necessity for keeping his skin dry under the silicone mask.

  The inner wall of the closet showcased a dozen masks on wooden busts, lined up precisely along a wide metal shelf. He allowed himself a moment to admire his collection. He’d amassed quite a few over the years, and special memories were attached to each of them.

  He already knew which one he would use tonight. With dexterous fingers, he peeled the chosen mask from its stand. Good-quality silicone masks—the kind used in movies and by hard-core costume lovers at Halloween—could be bought on the Internet for about $600, and they looked surprisingly real. In contrast, this mask had cost him $6,000.

  It was a work of art, custom-made to fit his face, and constructed out of the thinnest silicone money could buy. He’d worked closely with the owner of Professional EF/X Masks in Hollywood to design one that looked so real that the owner’s wife herself couldn’t tell it was fake from six inches away. Even its surface felt like real skin. Unlike makeup, it wouldn’t melt under hot lights or from excessive sweating.

  Facing another full-length mirror, he placed both arms inside the mask all the way up to the elbow. He stretched it gently, width-wise, as far as he dared go, careful not to stress the delicate facial features. Ducking his head, he slipped it over his skullcap, pulling it down over his nose and mouth. When it was properly positioned under his chin, he slid his arms out, allowing the mask to close snugly around his neck and shoulders.

  Watching his reflection, he pressed the silicone into his cheeks with clean fingers, smoothing away every bump and crinkle. He took extra care around the openings of his nostrils, where the product was very thin. The mask fit him so well, the silicone actually wrapped around his nostrils, extending a few millimeters into his nose to brush up against the tiny hairs inside.

  He did the same around his eyes, pressing the whisper-thin silicone into the skin below his eyebrows and underneath his lower eyelashes. His natural lids would remain exposed.

  It was common for masks of this quality to include lips, which would wrap around the wearer’s own. But he couldn’t stand the way those masks felt. Or tasted, for that matter. This mask had been specially made without lips, with the silicone thinning to almost nothing as it neared his mouth.

  Stepping back, he appraised himself. He looked incredible. The sight of a face that wasn’t his own never failed to thrill him.

  But the face staring back at him wasn’t perfect yet. Peering at himself closely under the harsh lights of his workroom, he could detect a subtle color difference around each eye where the silicone rested next to his real skin. No problem. Selecting the correct shade of foundation from his makeup kit, he blended his real skin with his fake skin.

  His lips posed a different problem. Because they were exposed, even the best-fitting silicone would separate a tiny bit if he smiled or spoke.

  No worries, he had a solution for this as well. A small amount of skin adhesive, purchased at any store that sold wigs, worked well to keep the latex tight around the mouth. And, to be on the safe side, facial hair was always a good idea.

  Picking through another box of supplies, he selected a thick, dark goatee made of real human hair that matched the coarse texture of the mask’s hair and eyebrows. He studied himself for a moment, then applied a small amount of lip stain to better match his lips to his new complexion.

  Concentrating on his reflection, he started to make a variety of different facial expressions. This exercise was critical—one should never assume that everything was in place until one had tested it properly. He lifted his eyebrows, and the skin of his forehead wrinkled naturally. He grinned, and his cheeks moved with him. He opened his mouth wide, and the silicone around his lips stayed put.

  The mask was perfect, right down to the last detail. His left earlobe even had a hole, in case he wanted to wear an earring. And just under his right eye was a small but discernible scar, which added a bit of edginess to his face.

  From his collection of colored contact lenses, he selected the darkest pair he owned. They were almost black and had been very difficult to find, as most manufacturers didn’t make lenses this dark. But any color other than this deep chocolate shade would draw too much attention. While he wanted attention—he needed to be noticed tonight—he certainly didn’t want to be scrutinized.

  Blinking the lenses into place, his face was complete. Now it was time for the rest of him.

  He padded his midsection with soft foam that added ten pounds, securing the pads around his abdomen with thin Velcro straps. It softened his lean frame into the body of someone who wasn’t fat, but who probably didn’t hit the gym often enough to be considered fit.

  A light application of s
kin stain darkened the backs of his hands and forearms, enough for the long sleeves he planned to wear.

  Time to get dressed.

  The outfit, like the mask, had been selected well in advance. Dark blue denim jeans and a fitted black dress shirt highlighted his new love handles perfectly. Because he was a stickler for details, he’d even bought new underwear. Normally he wore boxers, but tonight he was donning tight black cotton briefs. The soft material so close to his skin made him feel very aware down there, and he knew Sheila would pick up on that.

  To complete the ensemble, he slipped on a black corduroy blazer and scuffed leather boots. The left boot had a three-quarter-inch-thick rubber insole—just high enough to change his gait as he walked, but not so uncomfortable that he couldn’t run if he needed to. From a drawer, he chose a pair of eyeglasses with thick black rectangular frames and tinted lenses. Tinted glasses could draw suspicion, but tonight they’d be fine. He wouldn’t be surprised if several people—Sheila included—showed up to this meeting in sunglasses.

  And now for the finishing touch: a light spray of Burberry cologne. It had taken him two hours in the department store to figure out the right one. He spritzed it lightly on his neck, inhaling the clean, masculine scent. Citrus and musk. Morris had been wearing this exact cologne during the fake interview. Which meant Sheila liked it. Perhaps she’d even picked it out.

  Ethan assessed his appearance one last time. Such a full disguise was probably unnecessary—he could certainly have planned this night differently and done away with the mask altogether—but he wanted to indulge himself. Why not? Disguises made him feel omnipotent.

  Tonight, though, there was another reason: he wanted Sheila to know just how fucking good he was.

  He smiled at his reflection. He’d transformed himself from a twenty-three-year-old white male into a light-skinned black man, late thirties, with clean-cut bone structure and soulful, knowing eyes.

  Handsome, strong, confident. The perfect bait.

  Ethan jogged up his basement steps and moved quickly through the main level of his home. The four-thousand-square-foot rambler was nothing like the dingy apartment he shared with Abby in Seattle’s university district. For one thing, this house, nestled in the sleepy suburb of Lake Stevens, was all his.

  He’d bought it two years before, shortly after he and Abby had settled in at PSSU. It was the best decision he’d ever made. The house made it possible to separate his university life from his other life, as he sometimes thought of it. It had a huge, airy basement—hard to find in the Northwest—which was perfect for his needs. And the thick forest of trees behind the house made it easy to slip in and out of the neighborhood undetected.

  Flicking off all the lights, he opened his back door slowly and peeked outside. Houses were on either side of him, but they were separated by at least fifty feet of trees. Thankfully, interaction among the neighbors was low—Briar Woods residents were just snooty enough to avoid each other unless it couldn’t be helped.

  It was almost six o’clock. The McClellans, the workaholic neighbors to his left, still weren’t home. She was an attorney with her own practice in Everett, he was an orthodontist here in Lake Stevens. No kids. They almost never made it in before 8:00 p.m.

  Simon and Elizabeth Hoffer lived on the right. He could see Mrs. Hoffer bustling around the kitchen while her three young children sat around the large table doing homework. Simon Hoffer was in town this week, which meant Mrs. Hoffer’s lover would not be coming over once the kids were asleep.

  A quick streak across his backyard and he was on his way, heading toward the forest behind. Briar Woods was technically a gated community, but the only actual gate was at its front entrance, which was manned by a security guard at night. The small forest was the only thing separating the homes from the rest of Lake Stevens. The Homeowners’ Association had polled the residents earlier that year, asking if they were willing to pay to have twenty-four-hour security. Ethan, of course, had voted no. So had most of the other residents, which wasn’t surprising. Rich people were notoriously cheap.

  Once immersed in the trees, he moved through the forest at a quicker pace. It was completely dark, but the small, thin flashlight he’d stuck in his back pocket provided just enough light to keep him from stumbling.

  Ten minutes later, he popped out on the other side of the forest, into the small community park. It was dinnertime and empty now, so nobody noticed the dark figure with the slightly off-center walk making his way past the monkey bars toward the big black Chevy Suburban parked near the sidewalk.

  The SUV was a rental. He’d paid for it up front in cash using a fake driver’s license and phony insurance card in the name of James Smith. He never used the same ID twice.

  Coming back home he would have no choice but to drive the Suburban through the main entrance, but he’d already planned for that. It was all in the timing.

  Heading south on I-5, he had forty minutes until he reached Seattle. His first stop: the Safeway where Abby worked.

  No better place to test out his disguise.

  Standing in line under the harsh lights, Ethan held a carton of milk in one hand and a box of Fiber One cereal in the other. Once he got to the express checkout, he picked up a copy of People and placed it on top of the conveyor belt beside his groceries.

  Abby stood at the cash register wearing her green Safeway smock. The bluish tinge under her eyes told him she was tired. Her shift wasn’t over for another four hours and she’d already been on her feet awhile. With a brief smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes, she pressed the large button near her hip, sending his items down the conveyor belt toward her.

  “How’s it going?” Her tone was terse, disinterested. She scanned the items and placed them into the plastic grocery bag stretched open in front of her.

  “Great.” He smiled. “It’s a beautiful evening. How about you? Long day?”

  “Aren’t they all?” Finally she glanced up at him. “You’re Australian?”

  “I’m from New Zealand, actually. Been here for ten years. Can’t seem to get rid of the accent.”

  “Why would you want to get rid of it?”

  He shrugged. “To blend in, I suppose.”

  She punched the buttons on her cash register and frowned. “What’s so amazing about blending in.” It came out a statement, not a question. “That’ll be nine fifty-two, please.”

  He paid with a ten. She made change, putting it right into his hand. Their fingers brushed.

  “Sometimes it’s good not to stand out,” he said.

  Their eyes met briefly. He held his breath. Her eyes moved away.

  “Thanks and have a good night,” she said, then added, “Enjoy your People.”

  The words would have sounded sincere to anyone but him. Abby had no interest in celebrity gossip.

  He grinned. “Thanks. Don’t work too hard.”

  Nodding, he picked up his bag and headed for the exit.

  He couldn’t resist glancing back at her just once before he reached the automatic doors, but she was on to the next customer.

  He’d passed with flying colors.

  The Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting started at eight. Ethan made it with five minutes to spare. He parked his SUV in the parking lot of the Front Street Methodist Church and entered through the side like everyone else, bypassing the doors to the chapel and heading straight down to the basement.

  The windowless room was large and surprisingly cheerful. Colorful biblical murals were painted on the walls, and he wondered if this was the same room they used to teach Sunday school. Rows of folding chairs filled the space, all facing a shabby wood podium. Most everyone was seated, and only a handful of empty chairs were left.

  He felt several curious pairs of eyes on him as he took his seat and was relieved the room was dimly lit. Ethan was confident he looked normal, but soft lighting always helped.

  Sitting quietly, he avoided making eye contact with anyone and instead listened carefully to the limited
conversations around him. Traffic. Movies. Weather. Last night’s episode of some reality show he’d never heard of. Small talk. Nobody seemed particularly close to anyone else.

  He took a moment to turn and scan the room. A good ten seconds passed before he spotted her, five rows back, her makeup minimal except for her trademark red velvet lips. He was a bit jarred by her appearance—he’d only seen Sheila in professional attire. Or naked. Tonight, in a sweater and jeans, you’d never know she was a distinguished professor and board member of the American Psychological Association. Sex Addicts Anonymous, indeed.

  Their eyes met for a brief moment. He felt a tingle go through him. Then her eyes moved to the front of the room, no trace of recognition on her face.

  “Welcome, everyone.” The man at the podium was the same ginger-haired guy Ethan had met in the stairwell the first time he’d followed Sheila here. “Happy Thursday to all.”

  Voices murmured around him.

  “My name is Dennis, and I’m a sex addict.”

  “Hi, Dennis,” the group chorused on cue.

  “I see we have some new faces here tonight.” The meeting leader’s smile was warm. “Welcome, so happy to have you. For the benefit of our new members, I’ll quickly go over the rules.

  “First and foremost, we are anonymous. We’re a twelve-step program whose purpose is to support and encourage our members. We aim to achieve sexual and emotional health and stop the compulsive sexual behavior that has hurt ourselves and the people in our lives, using these twelve steps. You’re all encouraged to share as much as you can, but for now you may simply choose to listen until you’re ready. When we’re listening to other members’ stories, we do not judge and we do not interrupt.” Dennis smiled encouragingly and scanned the room. “Who’d like to begin?”

  A hand shot up in the front row, belonging to a bald man wearing a denim jacket. Dennis nodded and stepped aside. The man positioned himself in front of the podium, his scalp shiny and pink under the dim spotlight above him.