by Ian Ballard
“Yeah, that's a scary thought.”
“My ex-girlfriend had that happen once.”
“Hopefully, they'll snap out of it soon,” I say. “Sorry, I think I interrupted you before. Where did you say you were from?”
“Texas, originally.”
“Really? Me too,” I say. “What year are you in school?”
“I'm a grad student.”
That's a bit of a shock. I kept picturing him as an oversized freshman or sophomore. That certainly makes him more interesting. “What do you study?” I ask.
“Psychology . . . clinical.”
“Really? Me too.” I don't know why it's so hard for me to be honest about my major. Am I ashamed of it or something?
“That's surprising,” he says. “I would have said theater.”
I look at him for a moment, unsure where the remark came from. Something about his demeanor seems different now. Like he's more poised and confident than I originally thought. “So, do you know people here?”
“In Boulder?”
“At the party.”
“I just know you,” he says.
“You mean from just now?”
“No, we've met before.”
My heart skips a beat. “What?” I say. “Are you joking around?”
“No, not at all. I'm surprised you don't remember.”
I smile. “Well, take off your mask and let me see.”
“Nope—you have to figure it out.”
“You mean like we're playing twenty questions?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, how do I know you?”
“Through a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who?”
“Your old roommate.”
A chill runs up my spine as I look up at him. “Which roommate?”
“A blonde girl. She used to work at a bar called the Iguana. I think her name was. . . . Now what was her name?”
“Jessica,” I mutter, my whole body trembling. “Look, I gotta go.” I step away from him and turn.
“Hey,” he calls after me. “Hey, Nicole.”
I turn back, saying nothing.
“That's your name isn't it?” he says.
I just stare at him, while continuing to stagger backwards.
He takes a step towards me. “I just wanted to tell you you look nice without your glasses.”
Oh my God—no. Panicking now. I run off the dance floor back over to Ronette and Bryce. Feels like I'm having a heart attack. I hear my voice exclaiming “It's him, it's him,” over and over.
“What do you mean?” asks Bryce, rubbing his eyes.
“Who did you see?” asks Ronette.
I turn and look around me. Scan the room for the tall dark figure that was in the middle of the dance floor just moments ago. Eyes darting everywhere.
“Who was it?” Ronette repeats.
“Chris,” I mutter.
But Chris is nowhere to be found.
43
Colorado
For nearly half an hour, Bryce and Ronette search the area looking for Darth Vader, but to no avail. I'm still breathless. Feeling certain he's going to appear again at any moment. I hear them radio in my suspicion to the Bureau office and the Boulder PD, but I feel like they should be doing more.
While the party goes on without us, we step outside and confer confidentially by a small playground.
“Can't you put out an APB or do a dragnet or something?” I ask.
“I don't think we can say for sure it was him, Nicole.” Ronette looks disconcerted, though I'm unsure whether it's my clamoring about Chris or her stomach ailment that's to blame. “I mean, the guy was wearing a costume and his voice was disguised.”
“All he said was that he'd met you before and he knew your roommate.” Bryce still looks like he's barely awake. “Aren't there dozens and dozens of people in the city that know the two of you?”
“I don't know,” I say. “There are a few . . . but he knew her name.”
“I thought you said before that you told him her name,” Ronette points out. “And he just mentioned where she worked.”
“Maybe, yeah,” I say. “But he knew my name.”
“Are you sure?” Bryce says. “I thought before you said you introduced yourself to him.”
“No, I don't think I said that.” Feels like I’m being cross-examined now.
Don't know if it's just suggestibility, but I could swear I'm feeling a touch of something in my stomach now—which I guess makes sense, since I had a couple of glasses of Love Potion as well.
“Yeah, your account doesn’t give us much to go on,” says Ronette.
Bryce frowns. “It’s tenuous at best.”
This is frustrating—it almost seems like Chris played some Jedi mind trick on them. “But the incriminating thing was that he said I looked nice without my glasses on.”
“But other than tonight, you almost always wear your glasses, right?” Bryce asks.
“Sure—but I just misplaced my glasses tonight,” I say. “Don't you guys see a connection there?”
Bryce is turning green before my eyes. There’s a tortured look on his face as he speaks. “My suggestion is that we check the house and your car tomorrow for the glasses. I mean, a pair of prescription glasses is not something a thief generally goes out of his way for.”
I haven't told the FBI or anyone my own glasses are fake. So yeah, I guess my glasses being stolen would seem strange without that context. I think about spilling the beans, but decide the explanation would only make my position sound all the more psychotic. “Yeah, I guess maybe you're right.”
“Nicole, it's normal for someone in a situation like yours to be hyper-vigilant.” Ronette pauses. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“I think so.”
“Sometimes there are false alarms,” Bryce agrees. “It's the nature of the beast to. . . .” He trails off.
“What is it?” Ronette asks.
“My stomach—it's getting worse.”
Ronette nods. “I think there really was something in that punch. Why don't we just head back to the apartment? Let's drink some water and try to sleep it off.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Bryce says. “Sorry, Nicole . . . what I was saying is that—” Bryce suddenly sways and supports himself on the railing of the merry-go-round. He then doubles over and vomits on its red metal surface.
*
Back at the apartment, Bryce immediately passes out. Even before we can get him to drink some water.
“Do you think we should call a doctor or something?” I suggest.
“Not yet,” Ronette says. “I'll check on him during the night and make sure he's doing okay. If he keeps vomiting or it gets worse—we'll take him in to the emergency room. And maybe they give a two-for-one discount,” she adds, making a “yours truly” thumb gesture.
“Might have to even make it three-for-one,” I say.
“Oh, no. You too?” she asks.
I nod.
“Let's try to rest and see where we're at in a couple of hours.”
“Sounds good.”
Before we turn in, I make Ronette inspect the apartment for signs of a break-in. She reluctantly complies and of course, finds nothing. Although, in her condition, I question the quality of the examination. We each drink two full glasses of water and eat a couple of strawberry Pop Tarts.
“There's one good thing that came of this,” I say.
“What's that?”
“Our cover ought to be pretty solid after tonight,” I say. “At least with anyone who saw Bryce throw up on that merry-go-round.”
Ronette gives me a half-hearted courtesy laugh and walks me to my room. Moments later I’m turning out the lights and getting into bed. The room's spinning hard as I close my eyes. Sleep overtakes me like a ghastly black wave.
*
My eyes are open.
Total darkness.
For a moment I'm confused. Panicking. Convinced there's someone stan
ding at the foot of my bed. Watching me sleep.
I thrash about, as if to get away. The comforter rustles.
But there’s nothing but blackness all around.
What woke me? A sound maybe. A bump or a clank? Or some stealthy insect crawling across my check?
But no—it had to have been a nightmare. The way everything's pounding and sweaty. But apparently the kind you leave behind completely, without a trace in your memory.
Some of the details from last night feel fuzzy. Don't really remember going to sleep. The crack of familiar yellow light beneath my door is the only way I'm sure I'm in my apartment.
Ah, now fragments are coming back . . . the party, Valentine's Day . . . a few pictures from earlier in the night—
Then the rest hits me and my throat tightens.
Love Potion. Dance floor. Darth Vader.
Almost feels like that could have been a dream.
Wish to God it had been.
It had to have been him.
At least, I was sure at the time. Bryce and Ronette were giving me so much flak though. Makes me feel a little crazy. But no. I'm sticking to my guns this time. It was him.
But it's all blurry. That makes it feel far away and impossible.
How sure am I really? Just sure enough to be trembling.
But I'm safe. Arms and legs intact. I touch myself to be assured of this fact.
So, if it was him, there's a limit to his chutzpah. He ran away after all.
Now I recall what a mess Bryce and Ronette were. Hope they're doing okay. Maybe tomorrow we can investigate who spiked the Love Potion.
What time is it anyway? I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been crashed out. It could have been an hour or the whole night.
I look to my left. At the nightstand. See the neon numbers of the alarm clock to my left. 4:02 a.m. A faint red glow on the nightstand.
Hopefully I can fall back asleep. I lay back down on my pillow and as I do, my elbow brushes up against something. Hard and plastic. What the hell? Did I tote a mystery object into bed with me by some dim whim of intoxication? I have, admittedly, been known to do this. Once, I woke up next to a half-eaten corndog. Another time, I found myself cuddling an orange construction cone. But surely I wasn't that smashed last night.
I sit back up again and fumble with the lamp on the nightstand. My fingers make a scratchy sound on the lampshade. I finally find the switch and the room is full of blinding light. Once my pupils adjust, I catch sight of something on the nightstand.
The heck?
It's the case for my missing glasses. Just sitting there.
The case was definitely missing yesterday too. That's confusing. Did I find it last night but just can't remember? There's no sign of the glasses though.
Disturbing. Definitely do not remember being that plastered. Flashbacks of freshman year.
Now a second double take—next to the glasses case is my silver arm bracelet. The one with the silent alarm that Ronette gave me. The one I swore I'd never take off, even in the shower. . . .
Jesus, I should cut myself off of drinking until the sting operation is over. The consequences could be a lot more serious than waking up next to an unidentified lump in the bed. Which reminds me—there currently is an unidentified lump in my bed. I turn to have a look. . . .
As I see what it is, a hysterical shriek issues forth from my lungs and I scramble to get out of bed.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
I'm standing here. Staring at it.
Shivering. Shaking. Almost peeing my pants.
No way. No fucking way.
Trying to decide if it's real or a joke, whether to scream or run.
What it is—what's sitting there staring at me like some guillotined harbinger of death from a galaxy far, far away—is the huge black helmet, property of the dark overlord, Darth Vader.
44
Colorado
There's a point when you're so stunned, you just can't register any more surprise. That's how I felt when I saw the Vader mask. So, when Chris steps out of the bathroom, my response is more subdued than it otherwise would be.
Our eyes meet. Nothing quivers, budges, or blinks.
He's still clad in Vader garb, minus gloves and the headpiece next to me, and he’s casually drying off his hands on my hand towel.
He sets the towel down by the sink. “Don't make any noise or I'll kill you.”
On hearing his voice, I throw my head back and unleash a full-on blood-curdling scream. One that will surely wake the agents.
Luke just stands there, stylishly unconcerned. He actually makes that gesture where you look at your cuticles.
I keep up my shriek till all the air in my lungs is depleted.
“You don't follow instructions very well,” he says.
I scream again. Weaker and hoarser this time.
Now a glancing-at-the-watch gesture as he waits for me to finish.
“By the way,” he says. “I took the liberty of sound-proofing the windows while you were passed out—if that information is of any use to you.”
I look over and see that there's some sort of steel wool cloth covering both of my windows like curtains. It looks like the cloth is held in place with electrical tape.
“It probably wasn't necessary,” he says. “Neighbors aren't usually very helpful in situations like this, and your roommates . . . well, I wouldn't count on any help from them.”
“What did you do to them?” I gasp.
He looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Without being too graphic, their souls are but a little way above our heads.”
I spring to my feet, grab a book from the nightstand—Fathers and Sons, from Russian lit class—and hurl it at him. Then I grab the lamp—toppling over a glass of water as I do—and fling that at him too. As it leaves my fingertips, there's a look of mild curiosity on his face. An arched eyebrow. The sound of water dripping on carpet.
The throw wrenches the cord from the outlet. The room goes dark again. Things bump and thump and brush against walls. I hear him utter, “Ouch."
I’m on my feet, lunging toward the closed door. He won't be expecting this, so my hope is to bypass him in the dark. Plus, I know the layout of the room and his guard's down. I’ll be through the door and halfway down the stairs by the time he finishes wrestling with the lampshade.
Lots of sounds fill this half-second time span. Huffing and puffing. Cloth rustling. A groan or two. I’m sure I’ve made it. But then, somewhere in the darkness, the world tilts, goes topsy-turvy and my legs are no longer beneath me.
Being lifted up. Swept off my feet, as it were. The way strong, silent types used to do to their slighter love interests in old movies. My sincerest flailings amount to mere theatrical gestures in the strength of his arms.
Now a turn and a release. Then a free-fall and a springy bounce against a soft surface.
The lights come on. My eyes blink. I’m back on the bed where I started. He’s by the door, his finger withdrawing from the light switch.
I'm seething. Terror. Panic. Rage—if he's really hurt Bryce and Ronette, I'll kill him.
I grab the Vader helmet and hurl it at him with all my might, but he deftly catches it, as if I’d passed him a basketball.
I look around for something else to attack him with, but see nothing more lethal than a perfume bottle or a clock radio. Why didn't they give me a gun? I could have blown him away before he was done using my hand towel.
Then I remember the silent alarm bracelet.
All I do is push the silver button and in five minutes the cops come. That's what Ronette said.
There it is on the nightstand. Just got to get to it.
“I was pulling your leg about the agents. They’re fine. They're just tied up right now. No pun intended.”
“Where?” I say.
“Out in the garage.”
“We don’t have a garage,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes.
“I mean, in the l
aundry room. Sorry, I'm bad with rooms.”
“They’re dead, aren't they?” I'm losing it. Or did I lose it before?
“Do I look like the kind of guy that would harm a federal agent?”
I stare at him in disbelief.
He sets the Vader helmet on the floor. “That's really hurtful, Nicole. I have a lot of respect for the executive branch of government.”
How could he have known about Bryce and Ronette? Their undercover status was supposed to be top secret. Could he know about the bracelet too? Either way, I've got to get over to it. It's my one chance—if he's here to do what I think he's here to do. I'm just about to shift over to it so it will be in arm's reach when suddenly he steps over and sits down beside me on the bed.
I freeze. Glance at his hands. Think how he could kill me with those hands. Think how ridiculous it would be to be murdered by a guy in a Darth Vader costume.
“Nicole, I promise you your friends are okay,” he says, sincerely. “I promise you that with all my heart. Okay?”
I glance over at the bracelet. This close, he'd guess what I was up to, wouldn't he? Pushing a button on a bracelet is a very out-of-the-ordinary thing to do. If he figured it out, he might do me in straightaway, when I otherwise might have made it till dawn.
I take a deep breath. The only way I’m getting out of this is to stay calm. I walked away before—it can happen again. “Okay, I trust you.”
“Dishonesty is one of my weaknesses. I've been trying to work on it. It means a lot that you'd believe me.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.
I do my best to suppress a cringe. “No problem.”
He leaves his hand on my shoulder. “And do you mind if I suggest something that might be a weakness of yours?”
“I don’t mind,” I whisper.
“I think you might be a little too trusting.”
I stare at him. My hands begin to tremble.
“Just joking around,” he says. “Lighten up, Nicole. You were so funny before.”
“Why are you here?” I demand.
“Yes, why are any of us here? That's the big question. I like your style, Nicole—just get metaphysical and jump right in the middle of it.”
“What do you want?” I repeat.