Two Lethal Lies

by Annie Solomon

  To get away from the smell, she sat up again, this time more slowly. The rest of the room was as big as the bed. And there were a ton of boxes in one corner, all wrapped with shiny paper like presents.

  Gradually, she got out of bed. She was wearing a nightgown—where had that come from? She’d never had anything like it in her life. Mitch always bought her sweats or pj’s. This was white and soft with lacy ruffles down the front. She didn’t remember putting it on. She didn’t remember anything except drinking a Coke with Dutch in the limousine.

  Drapes covered the window, and she squeezed between the opening. Sunlight made her squint, so she shielded her eyes until they adjusted. What she saw made her gasp. Stretched out below her was a wide blue sea, so big she couldn’t see the end of it. Was it the ocean? Was she trapped in a tower like Rapunzel?

  A knock, and the door opened. Julia stilled, hidden by the drapes.

  “Julia?” The voice was low and strange. She heard whoever it was moving around. Another door opened and closed. “Julia, I don’t enjoy games. Come out, please.” This time the voice was cold enough to make her shudder. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy the consequences, my dear. I suggest you come out immediately.”

  The drapes swished open, revealing Dutch.

  He was wearing a red robe that was so dark it was almost black. It shimmered as he moved. He was amazingly handsome, and he had her same blue eyes. Was he really her father? Did Mitch really steal her?

  She didn’t want to think bad things about Mitch.

  “Well, I see you’re awake.” Dutch tugged her out into the center of the room, not caring that he practically pulled her arm off.

  She jerked away, rubbing her shoulder. “I see we’re not back at Neesy’s.”

  “Very astute of you.”

  “You promised.”

  “I think it’s time you learned one of life’s most important lessons: promises are made to be broken. Now, get dressed. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  “I don’t want to get dressed. I want to go home.”

  The eyes that were the same color as hers narrowed. “Do you have a car or an airplane?”

  “No.”

  “Enough money to buy a bus ticket?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t go home, can you?”

  She glared at him. Now who was playing games?

  “Where are we?” she said at last.

  “Chicago.”

  She wasn’t very good with geography, but she knew that was north of Tennessee. “Chicago isn’t on the ocean.”

  He laughed and waved an arm in the direction of the window. “Let me introduce you to Lake Michigan.”

  She’d seen lakes before but never one that big. Was he lying again? Mitch never lied to her.

  Well, except for the biggest lie of all. That thought widened a little hole inside her.

  “Are you… are you really my father?”

  He waved the question away as though it wasn’t important. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? Genes don’t lie.”

  “But you do.”

  He slapped her. Right across her face. It stung and brought tears to her eyes. “Enough!” He pushed her toward the boxes in the corner. She stumbled and fell. “Find something suitable to wear.” And he swept out of the room.

  Julia sat where she fell, too shocked to move. No one had ever hit her before. She stared at the festively wrapped boxes with a sinking certainty: having one dad in jail was nothing to having another one roaming free. Everything was going to be different. Everything. No one was looking out for her now. She’d have to do it for herself.

  Aggrieved and guarded, Julia shredded the gift paper and dumped out the stuff in the boxes. Velvet dresses and skirts in super-soft corduroy spilled out, blouses with tiny pearl buttons and stockings (stockings!), all of which she tossed aside, looking for a pair of jeans.

  When she couldn’t find any, she decided to wear her old ones, but they weren’t in their usual place—on the floor by the bed. They weren’t in the huge bathroom or in the wide closet or in any of the drawers, either. She looked around the stupid room. Mitch probably—

  She caught herself. Mitch wasn’t there.

  Another knock reminded her who was. “Decent?” Dutch called through the door.

  “Uh… just a minute.”

  She pawed through the clothes, found the least objectionable thing—a plain black wool skirt—and tugged it on. Another pass, looking for the closest thing to a T-shirt she could find, which turned out to be a soft wool sweater in the palest of blues, like the sky on a cloudy day. It was sleeveless and she looked for something to toss over it. But there were no long sleeves anywhere. She shoved her head through the neck of the sweater and opened the door.

  Dutch stepped into her room, quickly surveyed the open boxes and tissue paper and clothes on the floor, then came back to her. “Well,” he breathed, “don’t you look beautiful.”

  She eyed him resentfully. She still felt the sting of his hand on her skin. And Mitch never called her beautiful. He called her Jules, or Junebug, or kid.

  “There weren’t any jeans.”

  “No?” His eyebrows rose, like he was surprised. But she got the feeling he wasn’t surprised at all. “Oh, well, you don’t need jeans, do you? All of this”—his eyes swept over the clothes—“is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

  She held out her arms. They were covered in goose bumps. “I looked for a sweater. Couldn’t find one.”

  He smiled, and the expression made her feel like a baby or something. “A woman’s arms are beautiful and should never be covered.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. Before she could even try to figure it out, he sat on the bed.

  “I owe you an apology, Julia. I shouldn’t have struck you. It was terrible of me, and I hope you can forgive me.”

  He seemed to expect her to respond, so she said, “I don’t know.”

  “I’d like to start over.” His voice was soft, his eyes pleading. “And to prove it, I thought it would be fun to have breakfast up here.” He had a dark, melty voice, nothing like Mitch’s easygoing tones.

  “I guess.”

  “We could go downstairs if you prefer. The restaurant is decent enough.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  He paused. She could tell he was trying to figure out what she’d like, but she wasn’t going to help him.

  “Well, we’ll have it here, then.” He stood, rising like some kind of slow, twisting dancer. “I hope you like bacon.”

  She loved bacon. “It’s okay.”

  Another one of those smiles, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Good. I’ll let you know when it arrives.” He disappeared behind the connecting door.

  Breakfast came with a waiter in a tuxedo, who wheeled in a table with a white cloth and a ton of silver plates and covers. Her stomach grumbled. She never knew breakfast could smell so good or look so pretty.

  Dutch pulled a chair out for her like she was a princess. He told her the thick, puffy thing piled to the ceiling with raspberries and whipped cream was French toast. Mitch made good French toast, but it was nothing like this. He would have a fit if he knew she was having whipped cream for breakfast.

  There were eggs, too, sitting on an English muffin and covered with some kind of lemony sauce—the best Egg McMuffin she’d ever tasted.

  And no one rationed the bacon, so she could have all she wanted. She hadn’t been going to eat anything, but it smelled good and she was hungry, and before she knew it, she had pretty much stuffed herself.

  Suddenly she noticed Dutch’s plate was empty. “Aren’t you going to have anything?”

  “I never eat breakfast.”

  “My da—Mitch says breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Does he, now?” Dutch eyed her coolly over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “Not especially. Not after what he did
.”

  “But he’s your brother.”

  “Sad, isn’t it?”

  She pushed around the leftover whipped cream and the maple syrup. She didn’t know what it was, and that made her mad and miserable and confused and—

  “Julia.” Her full name vibrated low in his throat. She missed someone calling her Jules. But the longing made her feel guilty, too. “Come over here.”

  She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to get too close to him. But she looked up into his eyes. They were so blue and so beautiful, and they looked so soft that she hardly believed he’d hurt her earlier. She stood and went around the table to his chair.

  “Closer,” he said, putting an arm around her and pulling her in. His hand was long and narrow, his arm bony but strong. It encircled her tightly, not at all like Mitch’s familiar embrace. “There, now,” he crooned, “that’s better.” She could smell the shaving cream on him, sweet and metallic. He touched her neck, tracing a line down her shoulder and over her arm. He turned her hand to examine the inside of her wrist. It made her feel all quivery inside. “We won’t talk about Mitch, will we?”

  She didn’t want to agree, but she couldn’t help herself. “Okay.”

  “It’s just the two of us, now, all right?” He found a spot below her elbow crease where a blue vein showed beneath the skin. He stayed there, softly rubbing over the faint blue line with his thumb, staring at the spot like there was something special about it. “We’re going to have a whole new life together. And nothing that happened before will matter. Just you. And me. Forever.”

  She shivered, and abruptly he released her. A knock on the door startled her, and she jumped, which made him smile. He rose, and the mood shifted, lightened. Without knowing why, she felt… relieved.

  He ushered in a big man. He looked like a football player, except he wasn’t wearing any pads. Those were his real shoulders under that jacket.

  “Julia, this is Gus,” Dutch said. “He’s going to watch out for you.”

  “Hey,” Gus said in a deep, deep voice.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Julia said, though she’d never seen a babysitter that big before. “Besides, what are you going to do?” Mitch never needed help watching out for her.

  The shadow of a frown touched his face. “I have business to attend to.”

  “What kind of—”

  “Gus?” Dutch cut her off.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is the rest of the team assembled?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You have your orders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned back to Julia. “Get ready,” he said. “We have a press conference in fifteen minutes. I want you to smile and look your best. Your grandmother always said nothing could go wrong when you looked your best.”

  Then he disappeared into his own room, leaving her there with a giant whose shoulders were so big she didn’t know how he managed to cross his hands in front of him.

  Dutch could barely wait until dark. He’d been angry with himself for losing his temper with the child, but he’d managed to smooth things over. It was his special gift, getting people to do what he wanted—even though what he really wanted was to let the sacred music swirl out of Julia’s veins until she gave up everything inside her.

  It took great effort to suppress that craving. Soon it would be too strong to resist, and he would have to satisfy it. But not with Julia. Not yet. He had far bigger plans for Julia.

  Tonight he’d find some other sweet soul ready for sacrifice. Until then, he’d resist.

  The press conference went enormously well, even with that thirst slithering up his throat. But then there were the long hours until he could give in to it, and the constant temptation of the child.

  To stave it off he kept to his room, preparing himself for the night’s pleasure. Excitement rising, he unlocked his briefcase, flicked the tiny lever, and opened the hidden compartment. Just looking at the hallowed tools took the edge off. The vials of flunitrazepam, the syringe, the collection tubes. He took his kit with him everywhere, for just the reason he’d need it later. To slake that keen hunger.

  In the meantime, he ordered Gus to keep Julia in her room. To ensure she’d remain, he dosed her with a little more soda. Ordinarily he might have been appalled at her low-class taste, but her eagerness for the stuff proved useful.

  As it was with the runaway he eventually found, once the dark had taken hold of the sky.

  Usually he preferred his brides to be fair-haired if possible, and thin. His mother had been slim and blond, and he liked to be reminded of her. While she was alive, he’d kept the two promises he’d made to her: to be discreet and to not hurt his brother. As long as he upheld those vows—more or less—she kept hers: to remain silent and to smooth his way.

  When the mess with Julia’s mother was discovered, Iona had been furious. He’d apologized, of course. Explained how upset he’d been. But she hadn’t been in an understanding mood. He’d had to make it very clear that a lot could happen on a single night in a large mansion. His next adventure might be much closer to home if she didn’t stand by him.

  And she did. She was, after all, his mother.

  But now that she was gone, he was free to use his powers in any way he chose. And sometimes he chose to remember how she harnessed and constrained him. That’s when he enjoyed watching the life seep out of those who looked like her.

  But this night he needed a substitute for something else. For someone else. So he took his time, a hat pulled low over his head—cruising in a nondescript car he kept for this purpose—until he spotted one with dark hair.

  She was shivering and hungry, and when he pulled up to the curb, lowering the window enough for her to hear his offer of a meal and shelter from the cold, she leaped at it. Once inside the car, she told him she was sixteen, but he suspected her age was closer to fourteen.

  As promised, he fed her. One of those awful messy sandwiches from McDonald’s, a large batch of greasy French fries and an extra-large Coke. While she was busy with the food, he slipped the drug into the drink. Within ten minutes, she was dizzy and within another ten, she was immobile.

  Fulfilling the second part of his promise, he took her out of the cold—to an abandoned warehouse he owned. He had these buildings stashed here and there, bought under false names or companies, places he’d purchased and dedicated to his art. This was one of his favorites. Chicago was easy to get to from his base in New York, and the structure was in an ailing industrial part of town with many old and derelict buildings. It had a delivery ramp he could drive right up and inside so he didn’t even have to worry about being seen with the girl.

  Reverently, he carried her out of the car and onto the table he’d placed there long ago. He hummed as he stripped her, noting her small, budding breasts and the small thatch of hair at her crotch. He ran a hand over her smooth, warm skin. Once the clothes were gone, she seemed quite virginal. Except for the makeup. Lovingly, he wiped that away as well, using remover pads from his kit. Now she was ready.

  He stretched out her arms at her side, palms and wrists up so she looked like she was welcoming him. She had told him her name was Stephanie, but he called her Rose. His sweet, winter Rose.

  From his kit, he took out all the tools he’d need for the ritual. He found her vein and rubbed it with a finger, prolonging penetration. Then when he could barely stand it, he pierced the skin with the needle.

  The sacred liquid flowed out, and a familiar power filled him. He could do anything, be anything. Create, destroy, it was all one, and he was master.

  He remembered his first glimpse of Rose, chattering from the cold. Thanks to him, she’d never have to worry about staying warm again. She was free from want and need. From whatever pain had brought her to the streets. Because of him, she would be immortal.

  Rose didn’t linger. She was a petite thing, and it didn’t take long to deplete her. Soon enough, her heart stopped. He waited for the final few d
rops to leak out of her, then slid out the needle. A bubble of blood rose over the tiny hole in her vein. He licked it clean, lingering over the taste and feel of her.

  He kissed her forehead like a father. He kissed her lips like a lover. Then he took out a new scalpel—he always used a new one; it would be disrespectful not to—and carefully cut out her eyes.

  29

  The day after Mitch showed up at Neesy’s, the chief called off the car in front of her house and abandoned the search in the woods. All of which would have been good news, except it meant that state authorities had taken over. They widened the search south to Nashville, west to Memphis, and east to Knoxville, and they called in the FBI. Because he had taken Deputy Burgess’s gun, Mitch was considered armed and dangerous, but every news anchor assured the public that he wouldn’t be able to leave the state.

  Which was why Mitch was still lying low in Neesy’s house, and why the idea Neesy had had ever since Mitch had appeared, the one she’d quickly squelched, came roaring back with ferocious drive.

  It had started early that morning when Loritta called about Crick’s. The old man always shut the place down for two days around Christmas, but this year he decided to stay shut.

  “Says he got a cousin in Bowling Green whose oldest is going with a man whose brother is a fry cook looking to move. But he doesn’t want to start until the new year, so with Mitch gone…”

  No point opening a restaurant if there was no one to cook. Days past, Crick would’ve done it himself, but he was over eighty now.

  “Looks like we’re going on vacation,” Loritta said. “Hope it don’t last too long. My pocketbook can’t take it.”

  Neesy agreed but the thought of time off, right when she needed it, was too much to dismiss. “Might take a ride up to Lubbock and see Trisha and the kids.”

  “Not me. I’m going to sleep ’til noon, watch TV the rest of the day, and just plain do nothing. But you have fun. Watch out for the weather, now. Travel safe.”

  Neesy assured her she would and hung up. Then she went to the kitchen to start coffee, all the while her brain screaming, What the hell was I thinking?