by Katy Rose
“Have you seen the news?” Father asks as he sits down. It is strange to see Alessio Volpe in anything but a suit, yet here he sits in a linen pant and Hawaiian shirt. He looks good. Perhaps the sun is doing the old man good.
“I was checking. You know later this afternoon he will receive a ransom note and four million dollars will have mysteriously disappeared from his account last week. Several photographs of him will be put on news media's desks and in emails all across the world.” I take a sip of my coffee and watch as he furrows his eyebrows.
“When did you have time to do that? Why would the photographs matter?” he asks as he scoops up some fresh fruit putting it on his plate.
“I didn’t, she did. The photographs were found on his phone and on his cloud. They are of him and the Elliots, also him with several very underage girls.” I watch him carefully. His reaction is critical.
He nods his head and clears his throat. “You know you two won’t be able to keep this up forever. Eventually, it will catch up to you. I think your best defense is a good offense. Maybe you should think about your escape plan.”
“Your confidence astounds me, father. I guess I shouldn’t have expected more should I? Trust is so fleeting these days.” I swallow the rest of my coffee before looking up from my sister to him.
“I am not saying you haven’t covered your tracks or done well. You have, I am only saying maybe you should get caught.” He explains his plan, and I laugh for the first time in a long time. I see where I get my penchant for forethought. The plan is simple enough. To go big or go home. Let them think they can catch me and then turn it on its head. The plan was so raw and yet well thought out. I loved it.
“Kora, it is time.” She waves her acquiescence. So, I get up and go inside to get ready myself. I dress lightly in a pair of board shorts and open button-up shirt — a light fedora. And aviator sunglasses complete my outfit. I am ready for a midsummer soirée. We invited twelve of the Elliots' and Diego’s closest contacts here in Cancun. It promises to be a blast. Grinning I walk into the living room, Kora walks in from another direction, and we don’t even stop. We walk straight out the back door and onto a small fishing boat that we use to go to the yacht. Both were chartered in the Elliots' name.
“We need to talk,” I tell Kora.
“Too fucking bad Kaleb, you can’t break up with me. I am your twin.” Kora sasses me, and I roll my eyes. Always with that fucking mouth.
“No, smart ass. We really need to talk. I’m going to let you off on the yacht and park this boat five hundred yards away from where we are partying. Then I will take the jet ski over and park it on the yacht. While we are on there, you should know everything is rigged by remote that is here on this boat. Ok?” I ask her.
“Yeah. I figured you would do that. That isn’t what you want to say though, is it?” She asks — damn twin intuition.
“No. After this party, we need to go down to one or two bodies. But soon enough, we will get caught.” I look over at her, and she is furrowing her brow.
“What? How would we get caught? We have been careful and ten steps ahead at every turn.” She narrows her eyes. “Right?”
“We have, of course, darling you and I are the best teams in the world. But what if we confessed, got the notoriety, and then disappeared?” I smile at her bewildered look.
“I think the sun is going to your damned head. Kaleb, if we were to confess, they would get us.” She swats my arm, and I laugh.
“We have a while to worry about all that. Let’s get through this party, ok?” I wink at her, and she nods. This conversation is tabled until we get a more concrete plan down. First things first. Kora steps gingerly off the fishing boat and gets up on the yacht while I start it over away from land. Turning off the motor, I let it float around. The anchor is dropped so it won’t go far. The jet ski was left here on some rocks late last night. It looks like no one worried about it. I jump on the sports equipment and zoom back over to the yacht. Tying the jet ski to the yacht, I get off and grab the champagne glasses and bottles from underneath the deck.
Our guests begin arriving at seven sharp. Each of them has the same beach attire we went for. It is obvious this is a classy yacht party, but still semi-casual. Every guy has on a pair of board shorts and some form of Hawaiian print. The women wear sarongs or short sundresses. Their oversized sunglasses and skinny bodies, making them look like insects in couture. The sun is setting as we sail off into the middle of the Gulf. The trick with this party is all the safety components working against us. We had to coordinate with the coast guard and planes and the other boating schedules.
Everyone had to know the Elliot’s were throwing a party and it had to be broad cast enough, so no one was suspicious. I also had to call and get a fishing permit in Lucas' name, so no one was suspicious of the little fishing boat. So many factors that if they played together correctly, they would be a perfect symphony to murder. It was a challenge, and I loved a challenge.
“Good evening.” And. “So nice to see you.” Were thrown around as Kora and I played the dutiful niece and nephew for the party. We should get Oscars; we are getting that good at acting. She makes sure she has ample cleavage showing and flirts with all the pompous blowhards that are milling around. People tend to like those that stroke their egos. It gives them a false sense of security. Besides, why would someone hurt you or have harmful intentions if they seemingly adore you? Well, trust issues should come with their lifestyle. Lucky for us their narcissistic natures and the dire need for approval and adoration override their sensibilities. I do find it hilarious that we are using their own techniques and drugs against them.
“Thank you. I would love some free champagne. Where are the host and hostess?” Tom Richards asks. Mr. Richards is an investment banker. I was hoping his boss would plus one on this trip, but Mr. Carmichael it seems doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Smart man, Very smart. The problem is though we are smarter. He used fake names, and cash for all purchases, but Mrs. Elliot liked the notoriety of her big named clientele. She kept extensive records. Some of the names surprised even me. An NFL player, top seated lawyers, and a pop legend were just a few. It is a sad world we live in.
“They are making their grand appearance soon enough. Hors d'oeuvres?” I ask. Smiling as he takes a bacon-wrapped scallop. Oleander really is such a magical plant. The taste is hidden by the spices and sauce, and the more they consume, the faster and more potent it is.
Once the guests are settled and drinking and eating freely, we mingle for thirty minutes. Everyone wants to know who Elliot’s niece and nephew are. They are interested in where we grew up and went to school. Are we going to take over the family business? Of course, we make stuff up to pass off as well-respected members of their community. Gag me. I guess I should be thankful for the upbringing we did have. No one questions you when you just recently graduated from an English Academy and are now a law student at NYU.
Mr. Richards sits down a little too hard, and Mr. Sanchez is looking a little green in the gills. Kora heads down to the lower deck, unsuspected by anyone. I sit down next to them and begin chatting up Mr. Rodriguez, who is the lawyer to a fortune five hundred company. I hear the soft splash and know Kora is safely on her way back to the fishing boat.
“May I use your phone to call Mr. Elliot?” I ask Mr. Rodriguez. When he goes to get his phone, he can barely work his arm. I laugh it off as possibly one too many drinks and help myself to his phone and wallet while he sits there staring off into the blue. After getting his things, I go over to Mr. Richards and ask the same thing. He is snorting and laughing, so I use this opportunity to my full advantage.
“How many girls have you purchased from the Elliots?” I ask him while looking through his phone. I take what petty cash he has as well as his ID and credit cards.
“From them? They are low ballers. I have gotten maybe four that I recycled. You should talk to Mr. Preston Walker, President of New York University. Now he is bigtime. He has fantasy roo
ms. Anything you want he has. Boys or girls. Any age. He can get you connected.”
“What do you mean recycled?” I ask slowly so he may follow along with my train of thought.
“Recycling kids?” He asks. At my nod, he continues, “That means I had my fun with them and then sold them at a discounted rate back to Connie. She takes the kids and resells them in a new charity auction. She gets more money, and I get the benefit of breaking in a newbie for her.” His smugness infuriates me. But at his blank stare, I know the lights are on, but no one is home.
“Is he on your phone? Preston Walker?” I ask while scrolling through his contacts and pictures. I forward a lot of stuff to a burner track phone just for this purpose.
“Yeah, under President Walker. He does like his titles.” His posture starts to slouch, and I can tell I won’t get any more information from him pretty soon.
“Tell me about those fantasy rooms. What goes on there?” Looking around the “party,” I notice how many of the guests look high as a kite. Completely out of it or some are even asleep. I look over at Mr. Richards, and he looks to be on the verge of falling asleep. I can hear how shallow he is breathing and the effort it takes for him to push words out.
“Fantasy rooms. Off the record are exactly what they sound like. The young man or lady is dressed up; however, you want them they perform how you want them to and do whatever you want them too. There is no saying no. If they are disobedient you call Walker and he disposes of them.” His voice is barely above a whisper by the time he is done. That is all the information I needed, though.
I get up and walk slowly to the back of the yacht. I get the scuba tank on and sit down on the platform. Flipping backward, I dive down into the dark water and swim toward the smaller fishing boat. It is several hundred meters out for our own safety and getaway. The water is cooling off since the sun has officially set, I push my arms and legs a little harder to keep moving forward.
It takes twenty minutes to swim to the fishing boat. I pull myself out of the water and flop back exhausted. That was a long swim. I pull the keys to the yacht out of my pocket and toss them into the water. Oops. Oh well, they won’t be needing them anyway. I feel bad for the fish we are about to disrupt. Going about their fishy business when all of sudden disruption, but I guess that is life, isn’t it? Shit never happens when you are expecting it to. There is never a good and clear time to be struck off course. It is all about learning to adapt or falling to the wayside. Hopefully, the fish find a different course for a little while.
Kora has binoculars at the ready. Pulling out the remote, I detonate the explosives that were strung under every bench on the yacht. I don’t think I need the binoculars to see the fireworks if I did my job correctly. Ten seconds later, I am proven right. The yacht goes up in a beautiful mushroom cloud of oranges, yellows, and browns. The sound travels all the way over to us, lighting up the night in a flashbang. The sound of the silence that follows is my favorite sound. No screaming, no fighting, no one alive to tell what happened. It is a peaceful feeling.
“Oh, Kaleb! That! That was badass. I think you turned me into a pyro!” Kora jokes as she claps her hands, watching the burning debris fell from the sky like meteors splashing into the ocean. I can feel a slight sting from the heat all the way from where we are parked. Raising the anchor, I turn the fishing boat on and slowly make our way back to the cabana.
Natalia is sleeping when we return, which is good. She is a growing girl and needs her rest. Alessio is sitting out on the deck enjoying a whiskey sour as he looks over the ocean. “How was your party tonight? Did you get the information you were after?”
“It was a real blast Babbino. You would have laughed at our explosive jokes.” Kora laughs as she sits down and pours a drink.
I drag out the Ziploc bag with several wallets and cellphones tossing it to Kora. “See what you can get from these and transfer funds before destroying them.”
“On it. Would you like some more contacts? How far up are we going?” Kora asks.
I look at my father and then my sister. How far am I willing to take this? I have honestly been having fun getting my vengeance. The problem I guess with a vengeance is it once you get it one problem turns into another and now, I am twenty bodies in on this vendetta. Do I stop since the actual one who hurt Kora is dead? Or do I keep going until they are all gone? The whole network of Pedophiles and child traffickers could be a rather large pool. They all deserve to be dead, but how long until I am caught?
“Kaleb!” when my gaze focuses on my sister, she looks a little concerned. “Where did you go?”
“I am trying to figure out when enough is enough. I don’t think I will ever be done taking these bastards down, yet for everyone, we kill, we get at least three names. The world has gone to shit.” I whisper out my response. “I am terrified of my sickness, am I as bad as them because I enjoy killing them?”
“If you want to continue this vendetta on behalf of the kids, I will be by your side. It is a sickness that seems to roll through our veins. The judicial system won’t work in this. They think these psychos can be rehabilitated. That isn’t true. They deserve to be hunted exactly like they hunt innocent children. If you go down, then I go down with you. I think if we balance out the killing with positive acts like Babbino is with sponsoring kids and righting the wrongs, it will all even out. You are not alone, Kaleb.” Kora looks down at her hands and then up to me with determination in her eyes.
“I guess that is your answer then. You can both continue your work. It might be easier though Kora if you are both “dead” in a sense.” Babbino explains the plan he and I came up with to finish out this route and then disappear. One of his less than lawful businesses was getting paperwork for those who needed it. He could easily set us up with new identities within the organization.
“Ok. Next move. Where do we go from here?” Kora asks after we agree to our plan. She fiddles with the phones in the bags.
“We have four more names. After you find out the information, we need, we will stalk them. I guess we cross them off the list and as we do, we leave clues to who we are. When the police wise up and figure us out, we stop where we are. Does that make sense?”
“Stop as in for good or stop for a while?”
“We stop playing this game. There is plenty of time to reinvent ourselves. Why put a label on what we are now? For now, though, I say we toast to another twelve child traffickers killed and soon to be bank accounts drained into the fight for good.”
“You two get some rest. You have a meeting with the President of your college on Monday.” Alessio smiles and I realize he is not only a fox in name; the cunning Bastard is Volpe to the core. Cunning and ruthless. He knows what the game is before anyone else even realizes they are playing. Pouring a drink, I sit down and talk to my adoptive father, finding how similar we are both fascinating and terrifying. One thing is for sure, though, I have never been so not bored in my entire adult life.
Three days of fun in the sun is what follows. We build sandcastles with Natalia and take her snorkeling. Just relaxing and actually enjoying our little family and life. It is a strange sort of calm. I am able to actually sketch dolphins and paint the sunset one night. “The calm before we storm the college” as Kaleb calls it. I don’t look at the cellphones again after that first night. Making three large withdrawals from Diego and Mr. Rodriguez’s accounts. Our sum total in the offshore account is a little over twenty-nine million.
The Elliots' account was very lucrative. I give the password information to Babbino for the children’s center. I also give him the girl’s names that we know were raped by the seven lacrosse teammates. He makes sure there are checks sent to each girl who needs the money sent from a lawyer in the names of the boys who raped them. In the end, I have six names, and they are all higher-ups. Wall Street bigwigs, celebrities, and businessmen. I know it is the tip of the iceberg, but it seems like we are making progress. I even got a slight tan on my pasty skin while down here. So yea
h, progress.
When we get back to New York is when the real work begins. November in New York is not as warm and sunny as Cancun. The wind likes to come at you fast and strong punch from a heavyweight. It knocks you back and refuses to let you breathe. Pulling up the neck of my sweater, I try and cover as much skin as possible as I make my way across the commons toward the art building. We have to go back to classes; thankfully our long weekends were also aligned with fall break and a SIP day for the professors. No one seems to be the wiser as to where we were. They just know we got surprised with an adopted sister and vacation with our father. Rich people only care about everyone else’s business that makes them feel better or more superior to their peers. Monday is still Monday though. Shittastic. I am running late because I was up way too late hacking into the security cameras for President Walker's home and office. When hunting large prey, it is best to stalk from back far enough that he will not notice. Eventually, the hunter shows his hand, and by then, it is too late.
I make it to Art Histories right in time and grab my normal seat. I brought with me my dissertation on The History of Mental Illness in Surrealism Throughout History. I am done besides editing and turning it in. I am hoping Professor Mellum has time to read through the forty pages. She usually makes time for those she deems worthy, so fingers crossed. Setting up my canvas, I look at the subject. It is a self-portrait. I hate doing them. My hair is so blonde it is practically white, and I am forced to look at all the flaws I see in my appearance. I have no clue how I can look at Kaleb and see a perfect person, and yet my DNA bothers me.
I feel itchy in my skin, like a jacket that is cute but doesn’t fit quite right or is made of polyester. Years of therapy hasn’t helped near as much as taking out people who are connected to the stem of my problems. I wonder if justifying my sickness is another sign; it is a growing problem. Giving in to basic instincts of kill or be killed is one thing, but to physically hunt other humans for sport. I’m crazy. I know. At least I hide it well. I have never felt like me, though. I have no idea how to feel like the person I am. Is it being content in the person I know I am supposed to be or is it throwing caution to the wind and doing what makes me happy?