by Dyal Bailey
His brows creased as he wondered if he, like Rafaela, had been transported to somewhere in the Middle East. And if so, what type of treatment should he expect from these bastards?
A speaker crackled and he stiffened. Based on his brief knowledge of Rafaela’s pursuers, he expected a foreign voice, so at first when Antonio boomed, “Hello, and welcome to your new home.” Micah was oddly relieved. Good. The voice was American. His relief didn’t last very long.
“I hope you are comfortable, because you’ll be here for a very long time. And know this: To escape is to die.” The voice made the hairs stand up on the back of Micah’s neck.
“Where am I? And where’s Rafaela?” He stood next to the speaker and pounded his fist against the wall.
“You are safe, and so is she—for the time being.” Antonio did not disguise the threat in his tone. The man needed to know where he stood. He needed to understand and obey.
“You bastards!” Micah went over to what he assumed was a two-way mirror and slammed his fist against the glass.
Antonio chuckled. “Your efforts are futile. Everything in this room is both shatterproof and indestructible. Relax, Mr. Carteret, I assure you that Rafaela is alive and quite well. She is a little worried about you though.”
Micah continued to beat against the glass. “Listen you filthy scum. I want to know—”
“Tch. Tch. Enough small talk. It’s almost time to make our video. Don’t you want Rafaela to know you’re okay? Of course you do. Why don’t you go and change into one of your new outfits. And while you’re at it, wipe the blood out of your hair.
“Screw that! Who the hell are you? And where am I?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
“I had a feeling you might be uncooperative at first,” Antonio sighed, as if bored with the tedium of it all. He clicked a switch and a yellowish gas began to ooze from a vent.
Micah saw it and startled. He rushed over and tried to block the vent.
“Yes, you guessed correctly, the gas is going to be unpleasant for you indeed. But after you wake back up and stop vomiting, we’ll see if you’re feeling a little more accommodating.”
He pulled his shirt collar over his mouth and tried not to breathe in the air that was already starting to burn his throat. Soon, the room was a cloud. He fell to the ground as the swirling smoke that was searing his eyes faded into black.
…
It was early in the morning a week later, and Rafaela was sitting on a stool, staring into a microscope. She glanced up at Dr. Puja who just arrived at Gen-Bio-Lab and was standing beside her. Looking around, she saw Dr. Jacobs and the other scientists through a window. She turned to consider Puja. Trying to appear calm, she peered into her microscope as she spoke. “I’m not doing any more work until I see that Micah is okay.”
“My employer thought you might say that.” Puja gave her a superior look.
She stared at him, cross and questioning.
“Here’s a copy of the Augusta Chronicle and inside this is a digital file. Please take note of the date on the newspaper that your sweetheart is holding.” Puja laid down the paper, handed her an iPad, and footed it away.
She regarded the other scientists and made her way to a private room. She hurried to turn on the video. On the screen was Micah in front of a white screen, attempting a smile while holding up the same newspaper. Only the bags under his eyes exposed the reality of the situation he was actually in. There wasn’t any other detail in the frame to give a single clue as to where he was being held.
She touched her lips to her fingers and ran them over the screen. Then she clenched her fists and vowed to herself that she would find a way to set him free and kill everyone responsible. Taking a deep breath, she put the iPad away and went back to her work.
…
Günter sat coolly inside his new pearl-white Jaguar. The car was a gift that he’d bought for himself as a get-well-soon toy after his most upsetting janitor incident.
Friends from his performance poetry club had called him frivolous, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t needed something that suited him better than his red BMW 760Li anyway. Besides the devastating fact that the paint color had clashed with his new burgundy Valentino man-bag, he hadn’t bought himself anything shiny and new in months and months. This was dangerous to his personal morale, and he knew all too well the perils of all work and no new playthings.
Searching the opera tracks on his iPod, he found the perfect aria by Massenet to fit his present mood. He clicked sync and soon the familiar sound of José Carrera singing Pourquoi me réveiller pulsed from the car’s customized Bose speakers. Günter sat back, thinking of how his sorrows were not unlike those of young Werther, and waited for Rafaela.
An hour later, she exited Gen-Bio-Lab and strode toward her rental vehicle. She became immediately on guard when she saw a man leaning against her car. As she moved closer, she was irritated to see that the attractive young man with stylishly long hair was primping in her side mirror. While she approached, he even had the nerve to adjust the mirror so he could see himself better.
She inhaled and exhaled slowly, determined not to lose her cool. But her hands were in a fist and her face was crimson red by the time she stepped up to the man and cleared her throat. He ignored her, took out a comb, and used it to pull several lengthy strands of hair behind his right ear. She exhaled, attempted to still her shaking hands, and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned to her and there was a taser gun in his left hand. She growled. “Oh, give me a freaking break!”
Before the man could respond, she left hooked him in the face. With her right hand, she twisted and broke the wrist that was holding the taser. After giving him an elbow jab to his stomach, she tripped him to the ground, picked up his taser gun, and zapped him in the head. He was out cold, but still twitching from the taser.
Without pausing for a breath, she opened her trunk, put on surgical gloves, and found her DNA removal spray. Still writhing in anger and pent up frustration, she saturated the man’s hair and face.
She smirked as she saw the man’s hair begin to dissolve inch-by-inch. She saturated the rest of his clothing before pulling out her phone and sending a quick text to Dickinson. Without a second glance, she got in her car, slammed the door, and sped away.
Günter watched the exchange between Rafaela and the man, but could tell within the first ten seconds, it would come to naught. But when the petite scientist tripped the man to the ground, there was something familiar in the way the stranger’s hair swished to the side. He turned down his music and lowered his driver’s side window an inch.
After watching her speed away, he put on a pair of latex gloves, got out and drifted over to have a closer look. As he drew near, the putrid smell caused him to stop. He pulled out the perfumed scarf he kept in his pocket and held it over his nose. Studying the now bald and half-naked man on the pavement, he recognized him as an old friend from his Paris days and shook his head.
“Poor Renaud. What a tasteless way to die.” Stooping over, Günter pinched his friend’s arm.
“Hmm.” He lifted one of Renaud’s eyes.
“Ach! Das ist gut. But what to do now?” he exclaimed as he observed his friend’s hairless and reddening visage.
Dashing to his car, he came back with a six-pack of San Pellegrino sparkling water, drenching his friend from head to toe. He waited to see if whatever germ or chemical the little minx had sprayed on the man would stop processing. After several minutes passed, he could see that Renaud’s skin was no longer vanishing before his eyes.
He tossed his gloves aside, replacing them with a fresh pair. Grasping his two fists together, he popped the unconscious man on the chest. “Lève-toi, Renaud!” He shouted in his ear.
Renaud groaned and blinked his now lash-less eyes. “Maman chérie? Il est tard?” he mumbled.
“No, this isn’t your mother. C’est moi, Günter. Ici Günter!” He raised his voice again to almost a shout.
Renaud lifte
d his head. “Günter? Günter, le Municher?”
Günter helped him to sit up. Comment va tu, Putain! Smiling, he wiped the Frenchman’s forehead with his handkerchief.
“What happened?” Renaud ran the fingers of his uninjured hand across his now baldhead.
“She bested you, mon petit frère. Since when have you begun to lower yourself to kidnapping?”
He sighed. “Don’t look at me like that. It was Maman. She said the money was too good to pass up. You know how she is once she gets fixated on something.”
“Mais si! I was there when she stopped your group during Mozart’s Dissonance Quartet and demanded you tune your violin.” He gave him a sympathetic nod and began taping up his broken wrist.
Renaud rolled his eyes, remembering. Then, lifting his good hand upward, he continued with emotion. “I am an artist at heart, am I not? Didn’t you see that minister’s daughter all over Le Monde and the other newspapers?”
“I thought that was you. How in the world did you get the press to use your own pictures?” Günter finished his bandaging then hesitated. After a moment of anguished deliberating, he bit his lip and pulled off his light blue Hermes scarf to turn it into a makeshift sling for his friend.
“I slipped my rolls of film and memory cards into their camera bags.” He gave Günter a childlike smile.
“Ach! You have always been such a clever boy.” By habit, he reached up as if to pat the younger man’s hair, but stopped when he realized it was gone. He coughed and put his hand on his hip.
“Maman used to think so too, but you know how it is with her. Nothing is ever enough.” He touched his puffy chemical-burned face and turned to Gunter. “You should capture the pretty scientist and turn her over to the Arabs, my friend. You’re not afraid of anything.”
“Oh Renaud. How could you say such a thing? You know I only catch what I will kill.” Grave disappointment covered his face as he wagged his head.
Renaud stared at the ground, ashamed.
“On the other hand, what a woman!” Günter raised a brow.
“Ah, c’est magnifique, non?” He perked up, clutching what was left of his shirt to his heart. “I’ve been watching her for days. Unlike so many of these frumpy Americans, Mademoiselle Ramos is always beautifully dressed, her accessories—perfect, her shoes—oo là!”
“And to think what I could do with her hair.” He glanced at Rafaela’s vacant parking spot.
“Oui. I remember the chignon you did on that unfaithful Brazilian mayor’s wife. Quelle joie!” He swirled his good hand behind his head as if creating a loop.
“Yes, and the texture of the hair is almost the same.” He took in a deep breath and they both sighed.
Renaud coughed. “By the way, thank you.”
Günter gave him a half shrug. “It was nothing.”
“No. I mean, thank you for not interfering earlier.” He looked down at his feet.
“Ah, mon petit, you would have done the same for me.” He smiled and gave his friend’s back a gracious tap.
Something occurred to Renaud, and he considered Günter questioningly. “But why are you here? Don’t tell me Dr. Ramos is on your kill list.”
“That, my dear friend, is something I cannot say.” He gave him a you-should-know-better-than-to-ask kind of look.
Renaud stared at him, stunned then an incomprehensible expression washed across the Frenchman’s face. “Do you think you could …” He paused, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
He turned to him. “What? Anything, just ask.”
Renaud hesitated, but continued with an eager glance. “If you do happen to kill her; do you think you could email me the video when you’re done?”
Günter winked at him and gave him a very Parisian shrug. “I’ll see what I can do.”
…
Puja’s eyes sparkled. He was writhing with happiness. Happy because things were going so well, and happy to be facing his employer instead of looking into the lights. He sat with his hands clasping his chin as he stared at his boss who was becoming his idol. The man was a genius and he was easily the most devious person Puja had ever met.
Antonio was shuffling several sheets of paper in his hands. “Rafaela certainly isn't holding back.”
“The last video of Micah was most convincing, sir.” Puja chirped back, eager to meet with his boss’s approval.
“Rafaela and I really do make an incredible team.” Antonio twisted in his seat. “How close are they to creating something truly deadly?”
Puja continued to glow and shifted to mimic his hero’s movements. “It’s hard to say. Rafaela keeps asking for more and more hair and tissue samples from the patients with aging disorders. And she keeps re-sterilizing everything.”
“That's understandable. Training with these kinds of chemicals and viruses can be a deadly job. We wouldn't want any accidents.” Antonio, who missed nothing, noticed his minion’s adoring looks and that he was copying his gestures. He tried to ignore it.
“Yes, sir.” Puja sat up straight.
He was tempted to pat the man on the head. “How is Jacobs?”
Puja cleared his throat and answered with practiced specificity. “Enthusiastic, but tired. I’ve tried on numerous occasions to slow him down and remind him of his heart problems, but he just brushes me aside and keeps on working.”
Antonio pulled at his eyebrows, but stopped when Puja started to reach for his. He picked up a pencil and twirled it with his fingers. “Does Rafaela need Jacobs to finish the project?”
Puja pulled a pen from his pocket protector, rolling it back and forth in his hand. “That’s hard to say. She knows everything he knows by now and more. Plus all the difficult work is done.”
Antonio pressed his lips together and tossed his pencil into the trash. “Good. Let me know when you’ll be ready for a human beta test.”
“I will.” Puja put his pen away and cleared his throat. “Who are you thinking of using, sir?”
“That depends. Let’s see what happens to the rats.” He grinned. Puja indulged in a similar smile, then made his way through the exit. Antonio let out a sigh of relief and shook his head. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what next?”
Antonio lifted his phone.
Chapter Thirteen
With the enthusiasm of a recently liberated cockatoo, Günter swayed and danced around his kitchen, listening to Ah! je veux vivre. He picked up his mint green oven mitts and did a grand jeté toward his convection oven, pulling out two loaves of intricately braided bread. He leaned over for one luxurious whiff. Luminous pride washed over his face. “Herr Günter, you are the maestro!”
As he set the loaf pans onto his Bavarian love-bird trivets, his cell phone rang, instantly souring his mood. “Ach!” he muttered, woefully silenced his iPod, cutting off Renée Fleming mid-trill.
He tossed back his head and with pursed lips, answered the phone. “You said your men would keep an eye on her so I could have the weekend off!” he ranted. Holding the phone with his chin, he used two carefully balanced spatulas to move each loaf over to its own elevated wire cooling rack. “Of course I’m back in New York. What do you think I’m going to do with my time off? Stay in Augusta and go to a rodeo?” Inspecting his already pounded veal, he touched the flesh, then picked up his mallet and gave the meat five more whacks. “With the utter misery you put me through as guard dog to that female ninja-viper, you’re lucky I didn’t head to my apartment in Paris.” The Adonis-like blonde returned the oven mitt to its hook. “Ha, ha. I’ve had enough of your stalker jokes. Do you know what would happen to my reputation if it got out that I’ve done nothing over the last two weeks except play babysitter?”
With a specially designed thermometer, Günter checked the oil and butter that he was slowly bringing up to temperature on the stove.
“Yes, a worthy subject might make me feel better, but don’t tell me you want anyone killed right away. I have plans.” He floured his pounded pork filets and browned them one at a time. “Ba
h! I can tell this isn’t urgent. Your voice is oozing with schadenfreude.” Going to the fridge, he pulled out several meticulously pre-cleaned, chopped, and organized vegetable containers. “Tonight? Some ‘possible threat’ to your pet scientist is no reason for me to miss my covered-dish performance-poetry party.” He sliced some gourmet butter and tossed it into a small sauté pan. “They are not vulgar. At least this one isn't.” He turned down the flame. “Would I spend my entire evening making Jägerschnitzel if this was just another Philistine gathering?” Tilting his sauté pan back and forth, he sniffed. “Leave out the mushrooms? I’d sooner slit my wrists.” He set down the pan, put a trembling hand over his eyes, and shuddered in disgust. “Do you think I care whether you like mushrooms or not?”
Reaching for his bowl of chopped mushrooms, he prepared to ease them into the butter.
But stopped.
“You want a DVD sent to whom?” Günter underwent an instant 180 degree mood swing. With elated panache, he tossed the mushrooms into the trash. “Of course, I keep plenty of apricot wrapping paper on hand.” Floating to his desk, he picked up a freshly-plumed writing pen and took notes. “Yes, by chance I am feeling a little Sturm und Drang tonight.”
…
Bailey had stopped smoking and only stared at his cigar as it lay smoldering in the ashtray. He cued his video, but turned off the screen, when he heard someone opening his door. Hans, a mature German with white-gray hair and delicate hands, entered the room. Bailey locked the door behind him.
“Thanks for flying in.” Bailey shook his hand and there was an easy comfort of an old friendship, perhaps more than a friendship, between the two men.
Hans nodded as he watched him put the video on. The two men sat in silence. Now and then, Hans glanced at Bailey, who raised his eyebrows in response. Eventually, the screen went dark and the music ended. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.