by Marie Turner
“Okay,” I say.
Opening the car door, I step out into the night, my limbs feeling like ice suddenly. After closing the car door, I tread the sidewalk around the familiar corner. As the San Francisco wind blows in the streets, I’m grateful for the warm bullet-proof vest. Treading past the rustling bushes of nearby pristinely landscaped homes, I notice a white van parked down the street, and two other unmarked cars parked nearby. Above me, the stars remain hidden behind the fog as I pass the alley where I escaped on that fateful night. Soon I round another corner and stride across the stepping-stone walkway of Collin’s front yard, where the ground lights come to life, twinkling under my feet. Briefly, I imagine where Collin must be now. Jail? I never asked.
I pull the key from my pocket and feel the raggedness of my breathing. My hand wobbles as I insert the key into the gate. Just like before, it opens with a creak. I hear nothing from within. Outside, beyond this house, I smell someone’s fried chicken and hear a dog barking, the tinking of a tin can, and a child shouting, “I don’t want to read that book!” Placing the key in my pocket, my hands shake as I enter the code “5335.” The door clicks open as if by magic and I shoulder myself inside. As a light flicks on automatically in the entryway, I enter the code again on the wall inside the house. 5335.
And I close the door behind me.
Without a mission, a pursuit, I feel both terrified and ridiculous. “Hello?” I call out, as if to tell whoever I’m here. I flick on the lights in the atrium and look at spiral staircase that winds around it, the black intricate railing, the plants at the bottom, a small waterfall and pond with two small Koi fish, little of which I noticed on my first break-in. The waterfall makes a plinkling sound. Beyond the winding staircase, out the massive window and down the street, I see the black silhouettes of agent Larsen and Silver step out of their car. Larsen puffs on his electronic cigarette.
Last time I was here, while standing in this same spot, I contemplated taking the time to walk through the Chairman’s house to discover how the rich people live. From looking above and below, I see the house consists of at least three stories, but traipsing around it seems about as fun as running from a pack of hungry wolves. Instead, I remain planted in the spot, my hands on the cold railing overlooking the small pond at the bottom of the atrium below me, the water plinkling out in a continuous stream, the door only five paces behind me in case I need to run.
Just as before, I think of Robert. I consider how mistaken I had been about him, how I constantly chose to believe his actions were nothing but cruel, when in reality, Robert is a product of the world he comes from. Had I known his story, I would’ve judged him with a softer eye. Since he grew up motherless, was shipped from home to home before finding stability as a teenager with Mr. Spencer, Robert’s callous shell seems a safe and strong place to hide. In light of his past, it’s a miracle that he achieved so much success. And again, I feel a hot twinge of guilt at having cost him his job. But then my thoughts shift elsewhere. I think of Robert kissing me in his house. I cannot wait for this little job to be over so I can see him again. The thought makes me feel as though prickly cacti races through my veins.
For a long time, I stand there, leaning over the railing watching the fish in the small koi pond, partially contemplating Robert and partially the mess I’ve created. For several minutes, the bulletproof vest pinches at my stitches and I have to wrestle with it.
The more time passes, the more I feel as though I’m just house-sitting rather than being bait. Nothing happens.
Feeling somewhat bored, I wander into the kitchen and look out the windows onto the neighboring house. Only a fence and two feet on either side separate the two structures. High hedges stand on both sides of the fence. And I see the neighbor, a shadow of a man looking out his window on the second floor.
For a split second, my heart shudders, but he steps away, and I look out toward the street, where an old VW Beatle chugs up the hill and a couple walks their golden retriever. The night is otherwise dark, motionless, and sleepy. Leaning over the sink to get a better view out the window, I see the neighbor again, this time in his side yard, making his way through the hedges toward the fence. I wonder what he’s doing. Emptying the trash? There are no trash bins nearby. And then I see the fence open, and the neighbor steps through into Collin’s yard.
“Someone’s coming,” I say loudly enough so that Agents Larsen and Silver can hear. “Someone from the next door house. He just walked through the fence. What should I do?” I say, as if they can tell me, even though they can’t. Something about the way the neighbor moves seems familiar, like seeing a stranger in a train station and trying to place that face.
Next I hear the distinct swish-and-click of a door opening and closing somewhere in Collin’s house. Looking out the greenhouse doors, where ferns sit with winged arms, I contemplate heading to the balcony to jump again. But then I look left and consider racing out the front door. Just as I decide the balcony and take four paces toward the greenhouse doors, a figure rises out of the darkness in front of me.
I can’t see his face, but he knows my name.
“Caroline,” he says.
It’s such a familiar voice that I almost feel the urge to cry at the sound of it. My psyche wrestles with the possibilities even though it already knows the answer. The truth feels like buzzards plucking at my heart. I feel an aching at the back of my throat.
Taking a step back, I bump into the counter in the kitchen. It feels like a cold knife against my hands. Jutting my eyes left, I look through the darkness to find the other passage through the hallway to the front door, but I feel disoriented suddenly, as if someone has blindfolded and spun me around. Even so, my legs ready themselves to run, and my heart feels like a scattered, twisted mass.
“Caroline, I’m sorry,” he says. “Don’t run. Let me explain.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, my eyes welling. “It can’t be you, God, of all people. Tell me you have nothing to do with this.”
The tall figure steps forward in the dark. The shadows from the ferns in the greenhouse blacken out his handsome face. There is a distinct illness in the room. And I think about how wrong people always are in their judgments of others, how those judgments become revolving doors of conclusions based on events, but that no one really knows anyone else. We’re all just strangers to each other. We’re all just Clint Eastwood on a horse riding through a western film, deciding who to shoot and who to let pass on by. Who can you trust? No one. If we live by Clint Eastwood creed. No one.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” I utter, my hand sliding along the counter as I inch left toward escape. What’s taking the agents so long to bust through the doors? I can run faster than that. Shouldn’t they be here by now?
“Collin saved me, utterly, from a terrible life,” he says in that familiar voice. The voice I know so well.
At his words, my brain coils with a thousand jarring thoughts. I inch my feet left, my hand reaching.
“I was basically an orphan, Caroline. As a child, I had no choice but to do this business, just to stay alive. There was no place for me, aside from those who would occasionally offer me a rug to sleep on. Collin gave me a chance at life, a chance I never thought possible. He gave me a life, Caroline. As long as I …” he trails off.
“As long as you what? As long as you slept with him?”
“I was young then, only a child, yes, I slept with him. But it was better than being a prostitute on the streets. Now he and I, what we do is good. We save children in the Philippines. We bring them to the United States, and set them up with rich men in the states. They only have to be with rich men, one man per child. Do you realize how much better their lives are because of us? Do you realize how much good we’ve done in the world? We’ve taken poor, abused children and given them a chance at a normal life, a chance at the American Dream.”
“You mean human trafficking?” I say feeling the urge to be sick.
“Call it wh
at you want, but it’s better than the life these children had before. I’ve seen them, mangy children riddled with fleas and scabies and track lines on their arms. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I’m a good person. I’ve brought only goodness into the world through this work. Ask any of the children. They will tell you.” The tall figure steps closer to me and I see a long metal object in his hand, and I think I might just die of a shocked heart.
“How? How did you do it?” I ask, buying time to inch out of the kitchen. The metallic beast of a refrigerator growls in front of me.
“I knew how to deal with the people in the ghettos to make the transport happen. I knew who to contact in the Philippines. I even knew some of the first kids. Once we got it started, it was easy. I became the liaison.” He points out the window with his knife. “That’s how I get to live in that beautiful house next door. You never came to this house before for a reason. I never wanted you or anyone else at the firm to see where I lived. Then you’d know. But how else do you think I could afford all my clothes, all my luxurious living. Collin paid me through the firm.”
He steps closer and the light from the street shines on his face, on his beautiful Asian features. I can see why Collin would’ve wanted him.
Todd.
Chapter 16
“No todo es vero lo que suena el pandero.”
Not all is true that is played on the tambourine.
“What’s the knife for, Todd?” I ask, the metal glinting and quivering like a long celestial body in his hand. Todd’s dark eyes glare violently at me, his face like stone. Only the shimmering lights of the city outside the windows offer grave light in the dim kitchen.
Todd doesn’t answer my question.
“For a thin little thing, you sure know how to cause a lot of trouble,” Todd says instead, his lip twitching. “And with Collin going to jail, your trouble leaves only me to fix things, to run our whole operation. I have to deal with all that and you, too. And your snooping around, getting Cory and Henry involved. You’re such a freak about it, like a pit bull. You just chomp down and won’t let go. This whole ordeal with Robert was finished the minute you put that tape in the mailbox. Why can’t you just stop? What do you care if some paper-pushing asshole doesn’t have a job?” he says, a strange intensity in his voice.
“So you sent Collin to my apartment?” I ask, suddenly noticing the decorative overhead light hanging down like meat hooks in the shadows.
“Collin did that all on his own, but it was going to have to be him or me. One of us was gonna have to stop you. Do you realize how much money you’ve cost us these past weeks? More than you’ll make in a lifetime. We’ve had to shut down since you broke in. I tried to calm Collin down: I told him you had nothing to do with those photos in his mailbox, but he wouldn’t have it. He thinks you’re looking to take him down. Caroline’s not clever enough, I told him, but he didn’t buy it. And now look at you. Here you are. Why’d you come? Collin’s not stupid enough to leave evidence lying around.” He sounds as though he’d like to spit on me.
The pulse of the universe beats in my neck as I think about the knife in his hand and the fact that human legs were made to run. Even back in the days of early man. They were made to escape from prehistoric beasts, to dash blindly through tall grasses while hunting wholly mammoths. Even in the cowboy days, they were meant to dismount horses and run afoot in stone crowded marketplaces while men with guns chased. Yet mine have lost their will. My mind feels blind as I force myself to slide sideways, feeling my fingers along the kitchen counter in the dark.
“To be honest, Caroline,” Todd adds while he takes a small step toward me, “I never understood how you got Robert to kiss you. I’ve never found you all that attractive, with your curly hair, your freckles, your pale face. I never thought your little plan to get Robert fired would work. I thought he’d rather vomit than kiss you, even if he was intoxicated.”
I’m not so much offended by his comment as disturbed by the whole ugly scenario. Todd tosses the knife into his other hand, as if he juggles knives in his spare time. As bits of blackened shadows hit his face, the floor seems to tremble. I slide sideways again and contemplate my escape, at the same time praying for the feds to burst through the door. What are they waiting for? More confession?
“Look,” I say, stalling. With my palms up, my back against the counter, I try to reconcile the quivering in my voice. “We’re rational, you and I. I’m not a threat. It’s just me, Caroline. I can just walk out of here. You can go on your merry way. I’ll just forget everything. Like you said, I just wanted to get Robert’s job back,” I say. In reality, I’m already contemplating Todd in prison fatigues, how much I’d like to see him behind bars. Orange would be a terrible color on him. He’d be totally washed out, and he’d seethe in prison knowing I was responsible for this travesty. I glance to my left again, my only escape at this point. Toward the front door. It’s utter gloom since the automatic light in the entryway has gone out. Something hammers in my ears. Outside a car rattles by.
Meanwhile Todd is a snake ready to strike, and the room smells of carnage suddenly. My mind wrestles with the reality of it all. I can’t picture Todd killing anyone. Then again, it never would’ve crossed my mind before that he could be involved in anything like this. My thoughts briefly venture into Todd’s past, the kind of life he must have been living. I imagine how he must have spent his evenings, the children he’s victimized. The images repulse me. My stomach becomes acid while my hammering ears listen hopefully for any sign of the feds bursting through the door.
Edging myself along, I feel my elbow tapping something on the counter. It wobbles.
“I knew the minute I saw you in this house on my security playback that there was only one solution for you.”
“But, Todd,” I choke, as if we’re still best friends, “you don’t kill people. You’re a nice guy.” I sidle sideways. The counter edge feels icy on my sweaty palm. “You don’t hurt people.”
He sniggers. “How could you think that in my line of work I never had to hurt anyone? Are you really that naïve? There’re always the uncooperative ones. And what did you think you’d uncover here in Collin’s house? Some more evidence you could use against him?”
I don’t have an answer. In my peripheral vision, I map my exit. To the left. Run fast. Get out the front door and scream. What if I can’t see in the dark? What if I fall? What if he runs faster than I do? What if he stabs me in the back or throws that knife at me?
His eyes seem to say We might as well get this over with, and I feel a sudden jolt of fight or flight, so I take my opportunity to dash out of the kitchen toward the front door, seeing only utter blackness as I run, my legs feeling like they’re swimming through heavy water as I go. Behind me I hear Todd scrambling and feel the swift clutch of his hand on my hair. I totter backwards and the ceiling tilts as Todd swings the knife around toward my throat. Instinctively I elbow him the in stomach with both arms, feeling the solid tension in his abdomen. The action causes him to knock over a display dish on the kitchen island, and it smashes on the floor in a crescendo of clattering. As I run I hear him puff and stumble before hurdling at me again.
Several steps ahead of him now, I dash past the atrium, the outdoor lights though the grand window guiding my steps. I nearly fall while loping around the corner in the dark, my hair hitting my face like a whip. As I take three long leaps toward the front door and grab the handle, I imagine the havoc of blood that death by knife leaves behind. The body is made of five liters of blood. Five liters. Twisting the handle, I realize the door won’t budge. Fuck! I slam my fingers on the keypad to enter the code again, but my hand pauses. My mind stops. Suddenly, I can’t remember it. Seven five or five seven. Nine something? It’s gone from my memory. I turn to see Todd walking around the corner. Tall, handsome, model-like Todd. He stands there utterly unrushed, his hair still perfect in the light hitting the side of his face. The automatic entry light clicks on, and we’re both instantly illuminat
ed; only I’m the piece of meat ready to be sliced, the unfired clay ill-equipped for burn. With a knife in his hand, Todd looks like a different person, some stranger I’ve never met.
“You should’ve jumped off the balcony again,” he says. “Naturally, Collin and I rigged the security to lock people inside. You’d be surprised how often that comes in handy. The whole place is sound proofed. Even the windows have triple panes. You could scream for hours and no one outside will hear you.”
I should’ve jumped off the balcony. Yes. He’s right. As he walks to me, I think I should’ve also grabbed a knife while I was in the kitchen. Definitely. And then I wonder if bullet proof vests are impervious to knives as well as bullets. I wish I would’ve asked Agent Larsen about this. It seems like a relevant question right now. I should’ve done a lot of things differently, throughout my whole life, from the moment of birth until now. And I should’ve guessed something wasn’t quite right with Todd. How could he afford all his nice clothes, expensive scarves, named-brand sunglasses, and shoes on an assistant’s salary? I should’ve been more observant. If you’re not observant, you’re vulnerable. I look around the entryway for a weapon. Anything. I see nothing but a tall blue vase on top of an entry table. It looks expensive. It also looks as if it weighs a thousand pounds. To my left, I notice a bright red button on the alarm keypad. I hit it.
Nothing happens. Not a sound. No flashing lights or blaring alarm.
“I always thought it was cute, you know, the way you couldn’t handle things, the way you cried over Robert, like a little meanness would kill you. Like a sweet, defenseless kitten. There were always good qualities about you. It’s just your persistence that ruined everything,” Todd says. He twirls the knife as if preparing to throw it at me. And then he looks at it in his hand. “It’s my weapon of choice,” he says. “Less noisy.”
With my eye on the weapon, I raise my hands. “Just wait a second,” I choke. “Just wait.” He wouldn’t kill a friend, would he? “I’m your friend, Todd. We’re friends. You wouldn’t kill a friend, right? How long have we known each other? Two years? We worked together, friends for two whole years.” My voice sounds mousey to me.