Anathema

by K. A. Tucker

  Perfect. “That’s okay. I was thinking I could take Max for a walk to the park.”

  Mortimer’s baritone laughter filled the atrium. “Maximus isn’t the kind of dog you take out for a walk,” he said, shaking his head in amusement.

  “Besides,” Viggo added, “there’s supposed to be a protest outside, and those fanatics are known to get violent. You don’t want to get mixed up with them. You’re better off staying here. There’s plenty to do, darling—Leonardo can show you around. We have a lovely indoor pool and games room, as well as a sauna, a gym, a movie theater—whatever you like. And if we don’t have it, Leonardo will get it.”

  I nodded. Drat. So much for my reconnaissance mission. How else can I gather some information?

  The Internet.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a computer that I could use?” I asked politely. Please don’t ask why.

  “Of course! Maximus, please show Evangeline the way to my study,” Viggo ordered, confident the giant dog understood him perfectly. He stood, folding his paper under his arm. “We have some things to tend to. We’ll see you later.” He nodded to Mortimer and they headed toward the house.

  Mortimer stopped. “Sofie, are you coming? Now?”

  She hesitated, her jaw tightening. “See you later, Evangeline.” She followed them, disappearing through the red doors.

  I was left standing alone with four giant dogs, feeling less confident about my conspiracy theory.

  Ten minutes later I was in Viggo’s brightly lit study, a second floor room overlooking the street through barred windows. I peered out. No picket signs.

  Sitting down in the oversized leather office chair, I launched my investigation. First, I Googled Viggo and Mortimer. I didn’t have their last names but I figured that, given their vast fortune and high–profile location, there had to be some information on a “Viggo and Mortimer”—a successful business, a generous donation, anything.

  I found nothing relevant—not one article about the affluent New York couple, no mention of Viggo through his ties to the play. It was as if they didn’t exist. That wasn’t possible. Everyone who was anyone existed in cyber world.

  Strange.

  I shifted my focus to Central Park—the perfect location for their game, being nearby and enormous. Searching the park’s website, I found listings for plenty of statues but nothing specific for the white woman. And no caves. It had to be in that park, though.

  “Damn it!” I leaned back, my hands locked behind my head. I must be doing this wrong. I wasn’t getting anywhere, penned up in this palace.

  Max leaned forward and bumped his gigantic wet nose against my arm. “Do you know what’s going on around here?” I asked him. He groaned in answer. I sighed, roughly scratching behind his ear. “Sorry, I don’t speak canine, Max.”

  Chewing my bottom lip, I considered my options. Or lack thereof.

  “How scary could those protesters really be?” I reached for the keyboard again, typing in “protesters” and “Manhattan” and “October.” The first search result showed an image of gray–haired seniors with walkers and signs demanding health care reform. “Oh, come on! Them? Seriously?” I exclaimed. It didn’t make any sense. I scanned the next five or six results and found nothing that fit the fanatical protester profile.

  And then it hit me. Perhaps this was all part of the game, keeping me locked up in their fortress so I couldn’t go out and uncover their plot. It was a disturbing idea, but it made more sense than a bunch of maniacal geriatrics getting violent for cheaper drugs.

  I had no choice. I needed to escape.

  Rushing to my room to grab my jacket, mitts, and purse—and praying no one saw me—I convinced myself that I was doing the responsible thing by sneaking out. If this was all a big game, I’d be free of these lunatics. If it wasn’t and I was hallucinating, then I had bigger issues than protesters. I just had to get out without anyone noticing me. It was a good thing this place was the size of a shopping mall.

  “Evangeline! There you are,” Leonardo called out as I stepped into the atrium. His elderly eyes zoned in on my coat.

  Busted. “I was cold,” I lied.

  “I can turn the temperature up, if you wish.”

  “No, that’s alright. I’m good now.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Well, would you like me to put a movie on for you in the theater? Or perhaps you’re hungry. We could see what Martha has on the stove.”

  “I think maybe I’ll just sit out here for awhile,” I said.

  “Great. Why don’t we take a seat over here,” he suggested, heading toward the bistro table.

  Leonardo wasn’t going anywhere. He had obviously been assigned babysitter duty. He pulled out a chair for me which I accepted, smiling politely. We sat across from each other in awkward silence.

  I decided I may as well get some information out of him. “What is Sofie fighting with Viggo and Mortimer about?”

  Leonardo held his hand up to inspect his fingernails. “Oh? I didn’t know they were fighting.”

  “Well … I saw Sofie hit Mortimer earlier today. And yesterday, the screaming …”

  “Hmmm. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He smiled warmly at me.

  That confirmed it. He was either senile or covering for his employers.

  More uncomfortable silence.

  “You seem fidgety. Is everything alright?” Leonardo finally asked, eyeing my hands, which were strumming aggressively against the table.

  No, everything is not alright. You’re hampering my investigation. How was I going to get away? “I’m not feeling well,” I blurted, an idea sparking in my brain.

  “Oh. Would you like some Tylenol?” He stood.

  “Tylenol doesn’t sit well on my stomach,” I lied.

  “Well, I’m sure one of the maids has some Advil or Aspirin,” Leonardo offered.

  I shook my head, stalling. “No … what I really need is … Midol.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Um … it’s for … female problems.” My cheeks heated.

  “Oh. Hmm … okay,” Leonardo said, his eyes dropping to the cobblestones. “I’ll go ask the maids.” He started toward the red door, moving slower than usual. I suspected he wouldn’t be in a rush to fill that request—a proper elderly gentleman polling young female maids for PMS pills.

  “Sorry, Leonardo,” I whispered, then forced the guilt of my deception aside to race toward the gate. I remembered an ominous–looking solid door beside the car entrance. It had to be the exit to the street, though it appeared more appropriate for a bank vault. I’m sure they needed the best security here, with all their wads of cash lying around.

  If I can just get to it before anyone comes out … I was twenty feet from the door when Max’s massive black body appeared in front of it, the other hounds flanking him to create a formidable barrier. A low warning growl rumbled in Max’s throat as I approached. It was deep and threatening and if I hadn’t already developed a certain level of trust and fondness for this dog, I would likely have dropped dead from terror right then and there.

  I veered to the right, attempting to sneak around the canine wall. They all shifted their bodies, blocking my path.

  “Max? What are you doing? I need to get out,” I whispered, glancing anxiously over my shoulder for Leonardo.

  Max whined.

  Why would they do this? Unless …”Max, were you ordered to keep me here?”

  Another whine and a bow of his head, as if he were nodding. Yes, it was clear he had been. I was imprisoned. Leonardo was the warden and these dogs were the guards.

  I had to get out, and fast, but with well over a thousand pounds of ferocious muscle forming a barricade, this was going to be tricky. I needed a distraction. What would distract a dog? Something to chase.

  “Look! A kitty, over there! Go fetch!” I whispered excitedly, pointing to the other side of the atrium.

  None of them budged. Their eyes didn’t even shift.

  “Right. You’re smart
er than that. I forgot,” I muttered.

  I reached forward and pushed against Max. Nothing. I leaned in, putting all of my hundred and twenty–odd pounds against him. It was like trying to move a concrete wall. I groaned in frustration. These dogs were more well–trained than Jake, the only dog I had ever really known. That golden retriever’s sole purpose in life was chasing his tail and trying to steal thawing meat off the counter.

  An idea hit me—a desperate one. I dashed up the stairs and into the house, heading toward the kitchen. Luckily it wasn’t too far from the atrium so I found it easily enough on my own.

  Magda was chopping up vegetables when I entered. “Hi, Magda,” I called gaily, trying not to arouse any suspicions. She glanced up to acknowledge me with a polite nod, then returned her focus to her carrots. “I’m just going to grab a snack,” I said, heading casually toward the commercial–sized fridge. She nodded again without looking up, likely having no idea what I had said. That was fine with me.

  I pulled open one of the doors. Bingo! Meat. And it wasn’t hard to find, considering one entire side of the fridge was stocked with it. Why did they need so much? Doesn’t matter, I decided, reaching in to grab a zip lock bag before peeking around the door. Magda was now tending a simmering pot, her back to me. I closed the fridge door softly and hurried out before she could turn around. I’d have a hard time explaining what I was doing with eight raw steaks in any language.

  When I returned to the atrium, Max and the others were still standing in the same positions as before, like statues. Thankfully Leonardo wasn’t back yet. This has to work.

  “Look what I found for you!” I exclaimed, holding up the bag of bloody meat. I didn’t think they’d mind that it was raw. Jake had never been too picky.

  This time my method of distraction worked. Unfortunately, a little too well. All four dogs erupted in a chorus of vicious snarls and deep growls, revealing razor–sharp fangs—much more pronounced than I remembered. Muscles rippled with tension as they began stomping and pawing at the ground with their hooked claws, clearly torn between holding their positions and springing.

  The bag dropped from my hand, spilling blood onto the cobblestones as I scrambled back, terrified. Brilliant idea, Evangeline. Forget protesters. Leonardo’s going to come back to find your mangled body in the atrium. And then he’s going to have a heart attack and die.

  I locked eyes with Max, pleading silently with him. It seemed to work, as he settled down, his fierce snarls turning to snorts.

  The other three were still focused on the raw meat and frothing at the mouth. Max let out a ferocious growl and, turning, snapped at the dog to his left, his teeth tearing a chunk out of the dog’s ear. With a yelp, the three dogs stiffened immediately, resuming their guard. The meat was instantly forgotten.

  I stepped forward cautiously, deciding my last–ditch effort would be a show of confidence. “Okay, Max, you’re either with me or against me. You choose!” I commanded with as much conviction as I could muster, throwing in, “I’ll never forget this moment,” for good measure.

  Those perceptive yellow eyes gazed into mine as if judging the truth of my words. We remained frozen like that—eyes in a deadlock—for so long that I was ready to give up. Then Max suddenly covered my cheek with a lick. He stepped to one side, allowing a small space for me to fit through.

  I gasped. “Thank you!” Planting a quick kiss on his snout, I darted past, ready to throw the door open.

  Until I saw the keypad.

  “Damn it!” I cried, pounding once on the door. Tears welled in my eyes as defeat swept over me. There was no way out. I was in Alcatraz.

  Six … two … one … a distant deep voice whispered. I recognized the voice from the other day. Only this time it was speaking in numbers. Seven numbers, repeating over and over.

  On impulse, I punched the numbers into the keypad. My eyes widened in shock when I heard the lock release. How?

  It didn’t matter right now. I was free.

  8. Reconnaissance

  I studied the throngs of people as I crossed Fifth Avenue. There wasn’t a single person who could ever be mistaken for a protester. That seemed to favor my conspiracy theory.

  I passed through one of the park gates and stopped to take in the gardens and paths of the famous landmark, exhaling heavily. Where do I begin? The aroma of a hot dog cart wafted my way. My stomach growled. Start with lunch.

  Foot long and Coke in hand, I searched out a park bench and gingerly sat down, recalling the sharp metal seats of the benches around the fire the night before. This bench’s wooden seat was intact, definitely not one of their props. I scanned the other benches in the area to confirm that all of their seats were also wooden. I’m like Nancy Drew, I thought proudly as I took a big bite of my hot dog. A gob of mustard dripped onto my lap. A slovenly version.

  I couldn’t help but feel discouraged, sitting there. It didn’t feel like the same forest. I didn’t remember autumn foliage. But it had been dark and, if they were drugging me, I couldn’t trust my instincts, I rationalized. Still, something didn’t add up.

  I scrutinized the people hurrying along the various paths and sidewalks around me, hoping to catch a bubbly blonde skipping by. Or better yet, Caden. My heart began to race at the thought.

  It was sunny but the gusting wind carried a bite, enough to warrant a thick jacket and mitts. My hands—ungloved while I handled my messy lunch—were turning red.

  “So many people about, all in a rush, aren’t there?” a petite, elderly woman in a blue wool peacoat remarked as she slowly eased herself down beside me on the bench, a bag of dried bread in her frail, wrinkled hands.

  I smiled politely at her. “People prefer the warm weather.”

  “And you? What are you doing out on a day like this?” she asked, turning to face me as she leisurely tossed a few pieces of bread out to some eagerly waiting pigeons. She had to be in her late eighties, judging by her heavily creased face and her stark white, curly bob. Oddly though, her eyes were not clouded and bland with age but an intense hazel, speckled with dark green flecks.

  Looking for evidence that I’m being drugged and dropped off in Central Park at night, I replied mentally. She’d likely keel over dead if I shared that. “Oh, just taking in the sights. I’m visiting from Maine,” I said instead, drawing a big gulp of soda through my straw.

  “Oh, isn’t that lovely,” she replied. A typical old lady response.

  We spent the next twenty minutes idly chatting about the differences between Portland and New York as the old lady fed the hungry birds and I finished my lunch. She was a sweet, grandmotherly type, eager to ramble on about her ten grandchildren and three great–grandchildren.

  With the last chunks of bread devoured by the scavengers, she rose. “Well, it was nice to meet you …”

  “Evangeline.”

  “Evangeline. What a lovely name. Evangeline, I must be heading home now. It’s too cold out here for these old bones.”

  “Goodbye,” I said, smiling.

  “Are you going home now too?”

  “Yeah, probably,” I said, crumpling up my hot dog wrapper. “I don’t think I’ll find what I was looking for.”

  “Oh? And what was that?”

  I hesitated. “A statue.”

  She paused. “Anything in particular, dear?” she asked, her eyes squinting in query.

  I described the white woman in detail to her. Those unusual hazel eyes widened. “Yes! I know the one you’re talking about. Just take the paths through Shakespeare Garden and you’ll find it.”

  “Really? Thank you!” I said, feeling a mixture of distress and relief.

  With that, she shuffled away, moving surprisingly quick for such an old lady.

  I followed her directions and soon found myself deep within the park, surrounded by trees of all varieties, their leaves turning the colors of autumn. I was surprised how wooded and quiet it was with the city bustle so close by. It still didn’t look like my dream, but …
r />   On and on I walked, searching. I wondered if Leonardo had discovered that I had snuck out yet. I hoped he wasn’t too worried. If I could just find this statue soon, I’d have the proof I need, I thought. It has to be around here somewhere.

  Leaves rustled, stopping me dead. My head whipped toward the noise and I saw a stout, round–faced man walking a scruffy gray mutt of medium size. He had well–groomed, salt–and–pepper hair and a tidy mustache, and he was smartly dressed in a blue tweed coat and a matching plaid wool cap. A perfectly respectable–looking gentleman, I concluded, relaxing.

  The dog’s front legs were practically off the ground as it pulled its owner toward me. When it reached me, the mutt sniffed my pant leg, let out a low growl, then lunged upward, snapping at my arm.

  “Badger! Sit!” the man yelled, tugging the dog back sharply before its fangs could sink into my skin. Badger sat back on his haunches.

  If only Max were here, I thought spitefully, glaring down at him. You’d be shaking in your hairy paws.

  “I apologize, miss. Badger has issues with other dogs. He must have caught the scent of one on your clothing. He’s seeking therapy,” the man joked in a gentle voice, patting the dog’s head. I noticed a small tattoo of an angled cross on the fleshy part of his thumb.

  I laughed along with him, keeping one eye on the mutt’s ugly face.

  “Are you lost? You look lost,” he inquired.

  “Oh, I’m looking for a statue that’s supposed to be around here …” I described the statue, hoping he could redirect me.

  “Oh yes. This way,” the man said, smiling as he began moving off the path.

  That’s right! There hadn’t been a path the night before. That, I would remember. I followed him with renewed excitement.

  “Are you a tourist?” he asked.

  “Is it that obvious?” I said, giggling.

  “What brought you to the city?” he asked, veering into a more densely wooded area.

  “Visiting friends.” Friends who paid someone to bite me and make me think I’m crazy.

  He held a branch back for me to pass. “Friends … hmm … and have you known these friends long?”