Red and Black

by Nancy O'Toole Meservier

  Despite the fact that I had RSVPed insanely late, I had no trouble getting inside. The Tong family had really embraced the Day of the Dead theme (albeit somewhat prematurely—the actual holiday was almost a month away). Skeletons, many dressed in their Sunday best, adorned the ballroom, standing out against stark black backgrounds. Sugar skull masks had been neatly laid out on the tables next to the door prizes. The people who had opted for all black must have been patting themselves on the backs, as their outfits looked particularly striking when paired with the brightly decorated masks.

  This would make it a real pain to locate Callie’s potential victims. Granted, that would work to Faultline’s disadvantage as well, unless one of his powers was secretly X-ray vision.

  Speaking of which, where was he? I looked around, sure that, due to his enormous size, he would stick out even without his costume, but no one seemed to match his description.

  Well, at least there was one person I knew I could find.

  I elbowed my way through the crowd of brightly dressed individuals, half-tripping over one of the waitstaff. He was dressed from head to toe in nondescript black, complete with super-shiny dress shoes.

  “Miss?” he said, displaying his wares, which consisted of…some sort of cheese? I could never tell with these things.

  “No, thank you.” I pushed past him, head down, making my way toward the bar.

  Ironically, I had actually attended a previous Harvest Ball (I had been sixteen and it seemed cruel to force my mother to go solo so soon after Dad had died). I remembered a thing or two about the experience, including the uncomfortable presence of so many people, seemingly pressing in on you from every side, and the fact that if you were looking for a certain doctor, there was one place you’d be sure to find her.

  The late-middle-aged woman stood at a tiny table off to the side of the bar, her frizzy gray hair tangled in a black cat mask she had pulled up and over her forehead. In her left hand, she held a cocktail (martinis, I remembered, were her favorite). Her right hand held her phone, occupying half of her attention. The other half went to her latest victim.

  “Oh. And Micky. You need to see this one of Micky. Of course, some people feel it’s cruel to dress up their cats…”

  The stranger (a woman dressed in a gauzy white number complete with a feather-encrusted mask) glanced down at the phone and made all the required positive noises before looking toward the bar. It seemed like she was planning on bolting for the alcohol, and I wondered how many minutes she had managed to stick with Sylvie and her endless parade of cat pictures before being driven to drink. I could remember the feeling quite distinctly, despite the fact that it had been four years since I stood awkwardly in that woman’s place. At least I didn’t have to worry about struggling to find the right words around her. All conversations with Dr. Bouchard fell into the “one-sided” category.

  It seemed like I had a choice in front of me. Either I could stake out Sylvie the whole night or try to find the others. On one hand, stalking Sylvie seemed to make more sense. There was no way in hell I could keep my eye on three people at once, and Sylvie, being the most predictable, might be the first one to be snatched up. At the same time, it didn’t feel right to abandon Mr. Kent and Ms. St. Pierre, in case the doctor wasn’t first on the menu.

  I glanced around the room, finally lingering over the nearby buffet. That would give me a clear vantage point on Sylvie, allow me to look for the politician and hospital owner, and take care of the one problem I hadn’t planned on.

  My stomach was growling. Apparently, I had been so caught up in getting ready for the benefit that I hadn’t bothered to eat dinner.

  In fact, it wasn’t the only part of my life I had neglected between rewatching Mr. Hamilton’s diaries and taking care of the RSVP. I…hadn’t bothered going to class. Well, I had tried, but had been unable to concentrate, making the experience pretty useless. On top of that, I still hadn’t apologized to Sunshine. In my eagerness to predict Callie Saunders’s future moves, I was pretty sure I was neglecting more than one of my self-set rules. But this was important! I couldn’t just abandon four people to be abducted. I had to focus all my energy on this night. Life would be waiting for me afterward.

  It’s what any real Actual would have done, right?

  I made my way to a sizable selection of food, wrinkling my nose at the shellfish, to which I was highly allergic. Glancing back over my shoulder to see that Sylvie was still in place, I circled around the table and pulled off the mask to make it easier to examine the spread. I had finally chosen some sort of cheese and cracker thingamajig when someone bumped into me.

  “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

  I looked up to see a tall white woman in her mid-thirties with frizzy strawberry-blonde hair and hazel eyes. She had a softness to her, from the cut of her facial features to her rounded curves, topped off with a warm smile. There was just something so open and friendly about her appearance that instead of my typical response to encountering a stranger (murmuring an apology and backing off into a corner like a creeper), I smiled back.

  “No, it’s me,” I replied. “I uh…well, I was trying to figure out what everything was.”

  She let out a sigh of obvious relief.

  “You too?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “To be honest, I don’t think anyone’s sure. I asked that waiter, there.” She pointed to one of the black-clad servers. “And he seemed confused.”

  I laughed.

  “I guess I’d feel more prepared if I came every year. It’s…been a little while.”

  “Oh, this is my first time.” The woman raised hand to her ample chest. “I got my tickets from my former boss, you see.”

  “What…like a farewell present?”

  “Out of guilt is more likely.” She grinned. “My name is Bonnie, by the way, Bonnie Peterson.”

  “Dawn Takahashi,” I said without thinking, reaching for her extended hand.

  I watched her smile falter and eyes widen as she put two and two together. Then, just when I was about to cringe away, she managed to gather herself.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Dawn,” she said, shaking my hand.

  “It’s…same to you,” I replied.

  “Oh, hello, dear.” She paused to turn toward an approaching man carrying drinks. “I found someone who is just as perplexed by this display as I am.”

  “Alcohol is always safer,” he replied, voice deadpan.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it coming. The woman did introduce herself as Bonnie Peterson, after all.

  I was used to seeing him in khakis and polo shirts that—even without a mask—I almost hadn’t recognized Dana in that black-and-white tux. Why was he here? As snobby as it sounded, he didn’t seem like the type of person to attend charity balls.

  Of course, if his wife had been given the tickets as a gift…

  That meant all four of Callie’s potential victims were in one convenient place.

  I had been right. She was going to strike tonight. Did that mean Faultline was already here? Waiting in the wings? But for what? Was Sylvie still okay? I began to turn back toward the bar.

  “Husband, meet my newest ally, Dawn Takahashi,” Bonnie said, stealing my attention back.

  “Oh. Oh!” Dana said, his voice rising a note on the second exclamation. “You’re—”

  Bonnie cleared her throat lightly and elbowed Dana in the ribs. He let out a light oof and cast her an annoyed look before speaking once more.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dawn. I’m Dana,” he said, the model of politeness. Then he frowned. “What the hell are you doing here with all of us old people?”

  “I’m old now, am I?” Bonnie said, turning toward Dana, free hand on her hip.

  “What? No!” Dana sputtered. “You’re…ageless. You’re…”

  “Closer to forty than thirty. I see how I’m meant to be treated now.” Bonnie rolled her eyes, then turned back to me wit
h a smile. “Are you here with anyone, dear?”

  “Uh…no.” Unless you counted a doctor, a hospital CEO, a former city mayor, and your freakin’ husband. “The tickets were meant for my mother, but she’s away. I figured it would be a…fun way to spend the evening?”

  “I agree,” Bonnie said, ignoring my obvious lie. “The girls at work won’t believe the things I’ve seen already.” She paused and turned to Dana. “I think I saw Edison Kent. You know, the famously alcoholic mayor?”

  “I never voted for him. What an ass,” Dana replied, taking a sip.

  “He was standing over by the photo booth. The one covered with all of the skeletons.”

  “How…descriptive,” Dana said as a man in a sugar skull mask elbowed past us to get to the food.

  My eyes darted up and over the crowd. Where would they put the photo booth?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention,” a man announced from the stage area. The DJ brought the music low, and conversations began to die down to a murmur.

  “Well, looks like that’s it,” Dana said. “Party’s over. Time to go.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh that made my skin crawl. It was almost too easy to think of young Dana and older Dana as separate individuals, but in that moment, he had seemed unnervingly like his younger self.

  “Oh, hush,” Bonnie whispered. “I’m not leaving without at least one dance from you. Anyway, I just think they’re handing out the door prizes.”

  I tuned out the announcer, focusing on the sound of a husky Katherine Hepburn voice, raised slightly above the crowd. I looked up to discover Johanna St. Pierre, the sixty-something woman, standing a ways across the room in a little black dress, red lipstick, walnut-sized diamond earrings, and no mask. She laughed, resting her hand on the forearm of her partner, a white-haired man in a tux. Behind her, one of the waitstaff pulled out a cell phone and took a picture of her.

  That didn’t seem right.

  “Excuse me a second,” I said, hoping the food would keep the Petersons occupied for a few more minutes.

  I elbowed my way through the crowd, doing my best not to step on any toes. Most people’s attentions were on the stage anyway.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” I said, pushing forward until I was almost close enough to touch her. “Ms.—”

  “Johanna St. Pierre!” the man on the stage announced.

  The hospital CEO looked up with a frown and then laughed, pushing past me toward the front of the room. The waiter who had been taking her picture was nowhere to be found.

  “What’s Jo doing?” the white-haired man in the sugar skull mask asked one of his companions.

  “Won one of the door prizes, apparently.” A woman let out a snort. “You know, I think it was for a bunch of free massages, too. God knows she could use one.”

  “That’s odd, she was just telling me how she never enters these things. I mean, what would be the point? She could buy the massage parlor, after all.”

  “You’re telling me. Did you see who won the first one? Edison Kent.”

  I felt my blood freeze as I turned toward the stage to see Johanna shake the hand of the host and then walk off…where? Where did she go?

  But of course, that was the plan! It couldn’t be any simpler. Why bother to try to snatch up four (potentially masked) people in a large, congested room when it was far simpler to make them come to you?

  I turned toward the stage. The announcer was speaking again.

  “Our next prize goes to…Dana Peterson!”

  Shit, shit, shit! That was three of them. That only left Sylvie and her cat pictures. At least I knew where she was. If I could just follow—

  “Oh!”

  I skid to a halt just in time to stop myself from bumping into a curvy woman in a bright-red dress and high-quality orange wig. Jessica Rabbit, my brain automatically supplied (and a good one too!), but I didn’t realize who she really was until she opened her mouth.

  “Dawn Takahashi! If it isn’t Bailey City’s most wanted!”

  I blinked and looked back at her, mentally removing the wig and redressing her in a blazer and silk scarf.

  Shit. It was Deanna Sommerville, the news anchor from the morning show.

  “You know, I’ve been speaking with your mother for weeks about the possibility of getting you on the show. Did she pass the message on to you?”

  “Ah…no.” I tried to peek over her shoulders.

  “Huh. I figured she was the overprotective type. Not willing to let her little ones out of her clutches?”

  She leaned in conspiratorially as she spoke, but while the move seemed mischievous and inviting on Bonnie, on Deanna it just seemed…

  “I think it’s great how good a job you’ve done getting right back into things,” she said. “And that’s what I want our interview to focus on. How do you get back to life after tragedy?”

  “Sounds great,” I replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  I tried to sidestep Deanna, but she moved right in front of me, which seemed to take an impressive amount of coordination for someone who was kinda drunk.

  “I’d also love to get the family’s perspective. Your mother, whose career was launched on a novel about a kidnapped child. How does it feel to have fiction suddenly become reality? And your brother. Well, I bet bringing such a handsome face on our show would be great for ratings.”

  “Sylvie Bouchard!” the announcer proclaimed.

  Shit! I hoped the good doctor tripped over that faux fur stole of hers on the way up to the stage. I was running out of time.

  “I’m sorry Deanna, but I really have to—”

  “We can set up an appointment right away,” Deanna said. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure we don’t air anything that will make you uncomfortable.”

  And that’s when something that rarely happens, happened. I lost my temper. Not in an “I’m tempted to toss this disc of incomplete information out the window” kind of way. Nope, I was honestly, and uncontrollably, pissed.

  “Make me uncomfortable,” I snapped. “You’re making me uncomfortable right now. Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

  Deanna blinked.

  “We ah…just want you to have a chance to tell your story.”

  “Tell my—” I reeled back in disgust. “What you want is to use my pain and humiliation for the sake of entertainment.”

  “Well that’s not really fair. The public just wants to know—”

  “I don’t owe the public, or you, anything. I’m not some reality TV star. I was abducted.”

  I didn’t realize when I had started shouting, but when I looked around, I saw more than just Deanna staring at me. A lot of mouths hung open in shock. I felt my face redden.

  “And that concludes our door prizes!” the announcer continued. “Now just a quick few words of thanks for the Tong family for agreeing—”

  “Shit,” I swore.

  And without another word, I shouldered past Deanna and toward the front of the room.

  I wanted nothing more than to transform right there on the dance floor and leap across the room. Screw all the attention I had just drawn to myself and the fact that there were likely cameras here. Why not just scrap the secret identity? No matter what, I would always be seen as the girl who got kidnapped. The victim.

  How could I ever hope to be a hero after that?

  By the time I got to the front of the room, the host was drawling on about how great Marty’s parents were, with their support of the railways and blah blah blah. I didn’t have time for that. What I wanted was to know where the door prize winners had gone.

  Because they certainly weren’t onstage anymore.

  I cursed, shaking my head left and right. How could I have screwed this up so badly? How could I have failed to see—

  I froze. There was a door conveniently just to the right of the stage. And in front of it stood a very large man dressed in the black of the waitstaff.

  Maybe…

  “Excuse me,
” I said, trying to shoulder past him to the door.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the guy asked, the lights reflecting off his shaved head as he turned in my direction.

  “Oh. I’m just trying to get to that door.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Door prize winners only.”

  It was then that I noticed he wasn’t wearing the same shiny dress shoes that the rest of the waitstaff were, but black sneakers.

  Setting my jaw, I took a step forward.

  “Stop with the bullshit,” I said, trying my best—and failing—to make my small voice seem deep and commanding. “I’m part of the plan. The mistress needs me.”

  He jerked slightly at the word “mistress.”

  “Faultline didn’t say anything about no little girl,” he said slowly. “In fact, I don’t even—”

  “Little girl,” I snapped. “Amity herself sent me.”

  The man blanched.

  “Amity?” he asked.

  “Yes, Amity. She’ll be very upset with everyone if I don’t get through this door.”

  The large man hesitated. I decided to push my luck.

  “Listen.” I took a step forward. “This isn’t your fault. I’m the one who fucked it up. Uh…traffic was bad and I’m late. That’s why Faultline didn’t let you know I was coming. But if I don’t get there in time, Amity will be so pissed at me.”

  He paused and looked me up and down one more time before answering.

  “You shoulda been more careful,” he said. “This is for the Mistress, you know?”

  “I know,” I said, hoping I looked properly chagrined.

  “You gotta move quickly. They might even be at the tram by now.”

  Wait…the tram? That’s right. This building stood atop a station. Was Faultline using that as a getaway?

  I ducked my head to mask my surprise and murmured a thank you. He opened the door and I stepped past.

  The door shut behind me, and I leaned back against it, slipping down the cool surface until I was in a sitting position. My anger from my encounter with Deanna, the very anger that had fueled my discussion with the guard, fled from me, leaving me with nothing but barely controlled panic. I was in a large, cavernous room filled with tall shelves chock full of boxes, and flickering amber lights. A cool, concrete floor lay beneath me. In front of me, I saw a metal a stairway that led up and down. I could feel a rumble beneath me. The station would be right below, after all.