VIOLET EYES

by Nicole Luiken

  “leap off the cliff leap off the cliff”

  The message contained no capital letters and no periods. Had Dr. Frankenstein done that on purpose? What was the true clue—the cliff leap off? off the cliff leap? cliff leap off the? Nothing seemed to change the meaning; it still seemed to refer to Humpty taking a high dive.

  The shelf wasn’t exactly a cliff, though. I ran through some synonyms: “cliff,” “precipice,” “bluff.”

  “‘Escarpment,’” Mike said. “‘Palisade.’”

  “‘Riverbank. Bank.’” A bank was also a building. “Bank leap. Bank vault.’”

  A spark leaped between Mike’s eyes and mine. “Bank vault! That’s it. Good going, that’s our fastest solve time yet.” He didn’t add that we needed it. The clock stood at 11:35. We had twenty-five minutes left, and we’d solved only three clues. I didn’t know how many clues were left, but I was sure Dr. Frankenstein would have made more than three.

  To avoid the slippery floor Mike climbed into the bin with the cheeses and scrambled through them back to the front of the store. I followed, scraped at my dripping shoes, then hopped back to the ground. Solid, dry floor, bless it.

  We took off as if from a gun.

  Halfway through the store Mike veered down the housewares aisle. He caught up with me outside. “Steak knives,” he said, tossing a package to me. “I still say Frankenstein won’t kill us in front of witnesses, but—”

  “They’re not witnesses,” I gasped. “They’re his audience.” Dr. Frankenstein needed to prove his superiority to somebody.

  I paused a microsecond before getting into the car. “Which bank?” Chinchaga boasted three. CIBC was the closest, so we could count it out—unless Dr. Frankenstein was playing reverse psychology.

  Mike didn’t stop, mentally ahead of me. “Alberta Treasury Branch.” He revved the engine.

  Treasure hunt, treasury branch. Very cute. I tore at the steak knives’ plastic wrapping with my teeth.

  Mike backed up, and something squealed under the crunched-up hood. No matter. We were still mobile. Mike bumped across a rut-ridden alley and gunned for the Alberta Treasury Branch.

  It took me a few seconds to realize he was aiming at the building on the left. I yanked on the wheel. “That’s the liquor store!”

  We careened the other way but hit our target. The alarms went off as we crashed through the doors of the Treasury Branch, jangling my nerves so that I was already out of the car before I realized the Chevy’s engine had died. The hood was crumpled worse than any demolition-derby car I’d seen.

  Not a good sign.

  Inside the bank, I jumped the long curved counter and headed for the vault in the corner.

  It was locked, of course, the thick steel door shut, the heavy bolts in place. “Look for the combination,” Mike said. There were two combination locks numbered from 0 to 99, a security feature, I presumed, requiring two people to open the vault. Mike bent over the one on the left. “Maybe the actor playing the manager wrote it down in a drawer inside their desk or something. What’s your birth date?”

  “December 7, 1970. Or 2081, depending.” Between terminals on the teller counter were rows of drawers. I yanked open the nearest one. Deposit slips, forms, pencils, pens, gold name tags. I lifted the pencil tray but didn’t find even the faintest of pencil markings. The next three columns of drawers were virtually identical, not even yielding a button to shut off the alarm.

  I wondered why they had bothered to install a security system when there was no real money in the bank and no police to storm to the rescue when the alarm went off. Historical accuracy, I supposed.

  “What’s Michelangelo’s birthday?”

  “How should I know? Try the other two words in the clue—‘off the.’” I abandoned the tellers’ counter and ducked into the Plexiglas cage in the center of the room. I found cash there—this was where the tellers got it from during the day, not the vault—but no combination. I almost ripped a cupboard door off the shelf, then scanned its contents rapidly. Weren’t there any lazybones in this bank?

  Next drawer.

  On the countertop were three pens; two pencils and six erasers had been arranged to spell A = 24. Relief shuddered through me; I had to clutch the counter while I called to Mike. “Vincent left us a clue. A = 24.”

  If you numbered the letters of the alphabet, then shifted those numbers to the right until A was the twenty-fourth letter, O-F-F-T-H-E became—

  “12, 3, 3, 17, 5, 2,” Mike said. “I used to do codes as a kid. But I can’t dial two threes in a row.”

  I moved up beside him. “Try 12, 33, 17, 52.”

  Left, right, left, right. Turn to 0.

  The tumbler clicked, and I started trying combinations on the second lock. But 12, 33, 17, 52 didn’t work—that would have been too easy. Neither did 52, 17, 33, 12. My fingers began to sweat, slipping on the dial, and I was about to yell at Mike to stop crowding me when my third try—13, 23, 15, 72, using every second digit—did the trick.

  Click.

  Mike turned the wheel on the door, and the bolts slid back into the door. He shoved the vault open and stepped into the long narrow room.

  I started to follow but saw the vault door start to swing shut and barely caught it in time. The door was hollow but heavy, eight inches thick, with bolts as thick as my wrist.

  The alarm screamed inside my brain. “Beware the seventh sin and tend …” The seventh deadly sin was sloth. Had we saved enough time? It was 11:48 now.

  I was afraid Dr. Frankenstein might have hidden the next clue in one of the safe-deposit boxes, but apparently he hadn’t bothered, confident that the combination would take us hours—and without Vincent’s clue it would have.

  Mike came out carrying a piece of white paper, and we scrammed out of the building. We jumped into the car and read the clue by streetlight, to the tune of the strident alarm.

  “You haven’t got a chance.”

  More negative psychology. I looked at the form of the message again, but it was just plain white paper, nothing special, no creases on it, no words whited out, no watermark.

  Mike shifted into Park and tried to start the engine. It whined horribly but refused to turn over. “Ten minutes. He’s right; we don’t have a prayer.” The bank vault clue had taken us thirteen minutes, the Humpty clue twenty-two minutes.

  “Think,” I insisted. Whine, whine, screech. “‘You haven’t got a chance.’” I brainstormed out loud. “Chance, luck, gambling.” But there were no casinos in Chinchaga. I couldn’t even think of a bingo hall. “Lottery tickets?”

  “Maybe.” Mike grabbed my arm before I could jump out of the car wreck. “Wait. We have to think. If this is the last clue we can’t run into it blindly. He’ll have set a trap; he’ll cheat. This is to the death.”

  “Vincent—”

  “Getting ourselves killed won’t help Vincent,” Mike said brutally. “That’s presuming Dr. Frankenstein hasn’t killed him already.”

  “No. He won’t do that.” I shook my head, positive on that point. “Not before midnight. His pride won’t let him.” Pride was the whole reason for this contest. Dr. Frankenstein had grown up fat and repulsive; he’d tried to make a virtue out of a fault, telling himself his weight didn’t matter because he was intelligent—very intelligent, a genius. In his whole life he’d never met anyone smarter than he was; being outwitted by a couple of sarcastic teenagers threatened his world-view.

  “Are you so sure your own pride isn’t involved?” Mike asked. “He has a gun, and we have steak knives. Logic says we lose.”

  “What are you saying? That we should abandon Vincent?”

  Mike was silent for a second, trying the engine again with no luck. “You think he’d ride to our rescue?”

  I didn’t, but I didn’t think Vincent would believe we’d come after him, either. “Dr. Frankenstein locked Leona up in a drawer.” The words were pulled out of my tight throat. “As if she was a thing, not a human being. Dave didn’t think we
were human either. Like Mr. Lindstrom calling Carl a robot. I am a human being, and I will not let another human being die if I can possibly help it.”

  Mike gave a curt nod. Subject closed. “All right, we’ll try, but I still think we’re dead in the water. Even if we beat Dr. Frankenstein, his clients will be waiting in the wings.” A sudden arrested expression came over his face. “Dead in the water. ‘You haven’t got a chance.’ That’s what the clue means. He’s at the pool.”

  “Or ‘You haven’t got a prayer.’ Could be a church,” I said.

  We looked at each other. “Pool,” we said together, scrambling out of the car. I was beginning to get a feel for how Dr. Frankenstein’s mind worked, and the gruesome image evoked in “Dead in the water” struck a chord. Mike and I set off at a dead run.

  My mind worked ferociously, fueled by every pounding stride, and by the time we neared the pool—at 11:54—I had a plan. Of sorts.

  “We’ll stage a two-pronged attack. I go in and talk; you kill the lights at midnight on the dot, so the customers are in the dark about who’s winning. Then you come in fast and silent.”

  Mike understood instantly, just as Leona had. “You play dead for the cameras. But why you and not me?” A little machismo had rubbed off on him, after all.

  “Can you run faster than I can?” I demanded in a whisper, kicking off my shoes.

  Mike followed suit. “No, but—”

  “Are you stronger than I am on the badminton court? Do I tire faster than you or return shots more weakly?” I balanced on one foot, then the other, peeling off my socks.

  “No.”

  “But every other girl you’ve ever met does, right?” I stood there in my bare feet, not even noticing the rough pavement. “It’s a fact of life; you can see it in the Olympics. Women compete only with one another because on average men are stronger. Sapiens men are stronger than sapiens women are. But Renaissance men and women are equal. If I go in there, Dr. Frankenstein can’t help but underestimate me.”

  Dr. Frankenstein hated me more than he hated Mike because, more than anything, he resented being beaten by a girl.

  “Maybe,” Mike said.

  I brought out the big guns. “This afternoon you said you trusted me. Have you lost faith in me already?”

  Silence.

  “I’m putting my life in your hands, Mike, trusting you to hit the lights at exactly the right time. Please trust me to distract Dr. Frankenstein.”

  Mike swore, caught. He kissed me hard and pushed me toward the door. “I’ll do the lights. Go.”

  I held the steak knife against my leg and crept into the darkened building, following the smell of chlorine. As always, the tiles underfoot were wet, chill. I stripped off my egg-stiff jeans. Best not to be hampered by them if there was any possibility of going in the water.

  Dead in the water.

  Dr. Frankenstein intended to leave our bodies floating in the pool.

  Past the change stalls, ghosting through the showers, out to the pool.

  The underwater lights glowed, showing the lane lines and a black shape under the diving board, ten meters down, unmoving. Vincent.

  Dr. Frankenstein had cheated, after all.

  I’m sorry, Leona.

  “Its 11:57,” Dr. Frankenstein said, stepping out of the shadows by the bleachers. “Not quite midnight. Better hurry, though, your friend is getting low on oxygen.”

  The shapes beside Vincent resolved into a large black weight and an oxygen tank.

  “I told him there was enough oxygen to last until midnight, but I knew he would breathe shallowly so I put in less. I’m amazed he’s lasted this long.”

  I could see the gun in Dr. Frankenstein’s pudgy hands.

  “Drop your weapon,” Dr. Frankenstein said. “I’m sure you have one by now.”

  I let the steak knife fall and clatter.

  “Very good. Now step away from it.” I obeyed. “And where’s your other little friend, Angel? Tell Mike to go ahead and step out. You still have three minutes left, but it’ll take both of you to lift the weight. Come on in, Mike. Don’t be shy.”

  “He’s at the church,” I lied. “We couldn’t decide what the clue meant. We split up.”

  “You’re lying, but that’s okay. You two go ahead and try whatever you’re planning. I’m ready.” His watch beeped. “Now it’s 11:58. Go for a dip, Angel. I’ll watch.”

  The moment I dived into the pool I would be signing my own death warrant. No matter how excellent the swimmer, a person on land could walk faster, could move quickly, while the swimmer had to push through liquid. Being in the water would be like being trapped in taffy. I would be helpless.

  “No.” I took a step back. “I can’t swim.”

  “What a little liar you are. I almost believe you could become an actress. But you’re testing your talents on the wrong man. I know your record, remember? You got your Bronze Cross this summer. You swim like a fish.”

  Everything fell into place as if predestined to be there.

  “If you’ve seen my records, then you’ll know I almost drowned this summer,” I lashed out. “Mike pulled me out of the pool unconscious. I haven’t been back in the water since. I can’t bear to wade in water over my ankles.” I hugged myself. It was cold in the building, despite the heat I could see rising off the pool.

  The tiniest flicker of a doubt crossed his face.

  “An interesting story,” Dr. Frankenstein said. “It would be amusing, if it were true. But it’s not. Jump in the pool, Angel.” He stepped closer with the gun.

  “I’ll drown.” I moved sideways, away from the door. I wanted Dr. Frankenstein’s back to be to it for Mike’s entrance. Did Mike’s watch have the same time as Dr. Frankenstein’s?

  I kept backing up.

  He followed me, his arms out in front of him like a professional marksman, keeping both entrances and me in his line of sight. “If you don’t jump in, you forfeit, and I’ll shoot you now.”

  I broke out in a fresh sweat, shook my head.

  Another step.

  Another.

  I bumped into the diving tower.

  In the second that I was distracted, he took a quick step forward and pressed the gun up under my chin. It was a revolver, and it felt huge. I closed my eyes, not having to fake the waves of sickness and fear coming off me. He was close enough for me to strike him or knee him in the crotch, but his finger was curled tight around the trigger. I would be dead before I moved, my throat blown out.

  Dr. Frankenstein smiled, eyes empty. He knew he had me. “Jump in the pool. You still have a minute.”

  I went up a step.

  The gun stayed under my chin, jammed against my throat, making it hard to breathe, and my heart was pumping so fast I needed all the oxygen I could get.

  It would be the same for Vincent under all that water, with pounds of pressure on his body. And how long ago had Dr. Frankenstein weighted him down and dropped him over the edge? Half an hour ago, an hour? It would get harder and harder to keep his breathing shallow as the gauge showed less and less oxygen, and he began to panic.

  I kept going up. Dr. Frankenstein stayed with me, using one hand to hold on to the ladder and the other to jab the muzzle of the gun into me, not allowing me even the fantasy of falling on him and knocking him off the diving tower.

  His watch beeped on the seventh rung up: 11:59.

  I began to pray that Mike’s watch was close to Dr. Frankenstein’s. If the lights went out now, it would be good-bye, Angel.

  I was at the top of the steps now. Had I climbed too quickly? Slowly, gingerly, I took one step backward onto the narrow three-meter springboard.

  Dr. Frankenstein joined me at the top, breathing a little heavily but with the gun now pointing at my chest. “So which will it be? The pool or a bullet? You can’t retreat much farther.”

  I took another step back.

  He followed. “Do you think I’m afraid to come after you? I’m not. I have excellent balance. Will it be
the devil or the deep blue sea, Angel?”

  “Please.” My voice was hoarse. “I can’t. The water—I’ll drown.”

  “Oh, you are a fine actress. My mother would have loved you. She was a talent scout for the movies. She lived and breathed cheekbones and stage presence.”

  He had the gun pressed against my breastbone now, too close to risk jumping. I glided backward another step. “What kind of movies did your mother make?”

  “You’re not listening. She didn’t make movies; she was a talent scout, not a director.” He scowled, and my heart jumped. Reading his mood fluctuations was akin to maintaining a weather watch in tornado season.

  “What actors did she scout?” I asked quickly.

  “No one that you’ve heard of.” He laughed at his little joke. “She specialized in child actors.”

  Another careful step backward, feeling with my feet so I didn’t step off the end or the sides.

  He followed me without thinking, and the board bowed under our combined weight. Would it snap if we went farther?

  Any time now, Mike. The gun’s muzzle no longer touched me, and I was close enough to the end of the board to dive off. The recoil would probably tip Dr. Frankenstein in, and the gun would get wet and not fire. Unless he had some kind of futuristic laser gun …

  My mind bounced around like a pinball, divided between strategy and listening closely to what Dr. Frankenstein was saying about his mother.

  “I was too fat to be an actor, of course, so she dedicated herself to getting my younger brother on the big screen. Robin was just like you.”

  I heard the hatred in his voice and shivered. I had an instant picture in my mind of a fat, miserable little boy outshone by his brother, always being nagged by his mother to eat less but eating more out of frustration, priding himself on his one talent, his intellect, scorning others for their slower minds just as they scorned him for his obesity. I stepped back—

  And there was no place to put my foot. I was at the end. The board wobbled. It was definitely curved down now, straining under its burden, making it harder for me to keep my balance.

  Dr. Frankenstein, deep in thoughts of his past, didn’t seem to notice my predicament. “Robin was good-looking and graceful but very melodramatic. Always had to be the center of attention.” He smiled as if at a pleasant memory. “I remember the day I came home and found him bleeding in the bathtub. He’d slit his wrists. It was so funny. He kept begging me to call an ambulance. ‘If you didn’t want to die, you shouldn’t have cut your wrists,’ I told him.”