PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I nod, trying to regain my composure and put on a good front. He doesn't look like someone who would normally hang with a guy in a trench coat, so I have to play this right. My plan has been totally screwed up. I wasn't expecting a kid to be here with him. Intel has let me down again.

  Mark continues talking, and I try to pay attention.

  “If you turn south out of the parking lot and take a left at the light, you'll see the bar on the corner. Around seven tomorrow night, okay?”

  “Sure, thanks, man.” I shrug and walk away.

  The hum mellows out a little. I'm sure Mark was just trying to get the weirdo off his porch and doesn't expect me to actually show up at the bar. The hum, however, knows I will. It knows Mark's death is imminent.

  I have no idea how I'm going to bait the trap, but I'll figure it out. I always do.

  ***

  When I arrive home, Silvia is sitting in the living room chair with a glass of water on the end table next to her.

  “At least your clothes are still on,” I say as I lock the front door behind me. “Did you kill anything?”

  “Did you?”

  I halt in my steps. The semblance to an after-work conversation between a married couple is uncanny. And terrifying.

  Please, Karl, have a son.

  I head to the kitchen.

  “Not yet.” I grab a coke from the fridge and return to the living room. “Met him, though. He's a douche nozzle. Got some serious frat boy shit going on.”

  She lights up from the pack sitting on her lap. “How are you going to do it?”

  “Why? You want video?” I yank the cigarette from her hand and lean over her to submerge it into her glass of water. “No smoking in the house.”

  She flutters her eyes. “I was thinking we should do something tonight.”

  I cross the room and drop onto the couch. “Oh, god, here comes the we-don't-spend-enough-time-together talk.”

  She gives me a blank stare. “Well, we don't.”

  “Let's spend the next two hours side-by-side, then.” I drink my soda, waiting for her response, but she doesn't give me one. “Two hours in a car driving you back to the mansion.”

  She frowns, but still doesn't say anything. Then she picks up her pack of cigarettes and heads for the door.

  I spend the trip between the mansion and back trying to figure out what to do about Syd. Even though I want to convince myself letting her go is the right thing, my mind keeps switching back to the conversation with Coleen. I made Syd happy.

  Somehow, that derailed, and the longer Syd and I go without speaking, the further into the distance I will become. Yet I don't know what to say to her. Something tells me there is only one right answer, and I only get one guess.

  Back home, the house is silent. The way it used to be. I had never realized just how lonely this place is. Now I can't stop noticing it. No text messages going off on my phone. No anticipating the sound of an engine in the carport. No beautiful woman to undress and slather with devotion.

  I can't believe I let her think it was just about sex.

  After I crawl into bed, I text her the only thing I can:

  I'm sorry, Syd.

  I settle down to sleep, pretending she will wake me with a reply. My phone, however, remains silent.

  ***

  I don't notice until I'm actually inside that the meeting place with Mark and his pals is a strip club. On the stage across the room, women grind up against poles and perform maneuvers I'm pretty sure were not the intentions of gymnastic class.

  All of the dancers look hot in the purple and blue light. Any last bit of cognitive skill is drowned by the thudding music.

  Lucky for me, the hum in my head returns me to task. I would wager the anchor with Syd's name on it in my chest helps, too.

  I spot Mark at a table about the same time he sees me.

  He stands to shake my hand and pat my shoulder. “Hey, glad you made it. Some of the guys are playing pool.”

  I grit my teeth, trying to slink out of his hold without putting him off.

  Focus. Need to find my in with this guy. I already know we have nothing in common, so I have to figure out a way to fake it.

  “So, catch the game?”

  Mark flags a cocktail waitress. “Hm, which one?”

  Shit. I have no idea.

  “Doesn't matter.” I pull up a bar stool. “It sucked, anyway.”

  The cocktail waitress is wearing a bra and small, tight shorts that have ridden up so much they're practically just underwear.

  “What can I get you guys?”

  Her gaze lingers over me. She's actually pretty, in the sort of way she should be wearing something modest with a lot less makeup. I bet she made all A's in school. Got along well with her mother. How the hell do people wind up in these situations?

  Says the killer genie.

  I shrug. “Just a coke.”

  She nods and turns to one of the other guys in the group.

  Mark looks at me. “I thought you said you drink?”

  “Oh, I do. Driving. Ya know.”

  It's almost amazing how many things I lie about in any given day.

  “One of the cab services will pick you up for free.” He reaches over to hit one of his buddies in the arm. “You remember that taxi?”

  The guy—also decked out in pastels and a pair of sunglasses—shakes his head. “Nah, just ask the bartender. She has it.”

  Somehow, these guys are less of a dick about taxi jab than I ever am. Thankfully, the waitress is already gone. I have a policy against drinking and killing.

  The guy goes back to his conversation with another frat brother at the table. I don't even try to follow what they're talking about, but I bet one of them will discover Mark's corpse tomorrow.

  The waitress delivers our drinks.

  Mark takes a sip of his beer. “Where are you from?”

  “San Diego,” I say, because it's the first city that comes to mind.

  Apparently blowing up an anthropology lab left an impression in my brain.

  “Great city. I just came back from spending a year in the Middle East.”

  I halt, my glass mid-raise. That's the last place I would expect the frat boy to have been spending time. Not much slaying going on there, I would imagine.

  I try to act casual. “You in the army?”

  “Nah, studying.” He takes another gulp of his beer. “Good to be home. You think it can't get hotter than Phoenix, but it can.”

  “Yeah, I don't see any point trading one desert for another.” I stare down at my drink.

  I'm at a lost on how to steer this conversation. Should I talk about roofying girls, or the political situation in Afghanistan? Nothing I've gleaned about him so far makes sense. I don't know who to pretend to be.

  Agitation creeps under my skin. The longer I have to spend on this wish, the greater the chance Syd slips away forever. I don't know when the numbness disappeared, but it didn't last long. I would like to have it back.

  I just need to kill this guy. I can't exactly ask when his schedule has an opening for being murdered, but I can try to find out when he will be alone again.

  I drink my rum-less coke and plot my next words. Time to get real.

  “So, you have kids?”

  He laughs. “Yes, kind of. That was my girlfriend's little girl. She takes classes as ASU during the day and works at a nearby pharmacy at night. The babysitter called out, so I was watching her. Plus, you know, make up for the time I was away.”

  “Well, at least you can send that one home,” I say, acting like I know something about raising children.

  Mark shrugs and drinks his beer before replying. “No big deal. The father is a vag-rocket.”

  I smirk. Vag-rocket. Got to add that one to the repertoire.

  “Kids need a dad, though,” he continues. “She's awesome. I taught her to death growl.”

  “Put her on the Internet. She'll go viral.” I laugh despite myself, picturing that pale red
headed little kid imitating George Oosthoek.

  This guy just gets stranger every time he opens his mouth.

  “Yeah, don't think I want my three year old on the Internet.” He beckons over the waitress for another beer, then turns back to me. “You got kids?”

  I shake my head. “Hell no.”

  I try to laugh, but falter. There are so many things wrong with this situation. Mark isn't a bad guy. He's no more frat boy than Syd was ever in a rock band. Just like I pretended Counselor Robert was a pedophile, Phil was a wife abuser, and all the other stories all the way back. Stories that make my world keep spinning, because otherwise I would do nothing but stare at a wall between orders.

  I don't want to take Mark from that kid.

  I don't want to take anyone from anyone again.

  I push off from my stool.

  “It was great meeting you, but I should leave.” I put out my arm and ignore the growing hum in my brain. “Good luck—with everything.”

  “You, too.” He shakes my hand. “Hey, we're going to the casino in a few days. What's your number? I'll text you the address.”

  I don't care to become buddies with the guy I was supposed to kill, but it will seem odd if I don't accept. So I give him my phone number and make my escape.

  On my way home, my phone vibrates.

  My lungs stop altogether as I work the phone from my pocket. I pull over into a residential street and park on the curb to read the message.

  Dimitri, it was dumb of me to be metaphoric, and I apologize. -Syd

  My fingers hover over the screen. I itch to press the call button and hear the tone of her voice. Is she angry? Is she grieving?

  Is this my karma for saving Mark?

  Does karma even exist?

  I don't really care. Syd is back. Somehow.

  Because I have absolutely no idea what stupid words will come out of my mouth if I call her, I decide to text.

  I shouldn't have let you down. I'm sorry. Do you want to come over to discuss it?

  That sounds way calmer than I feel.

  I wait, car still idling outside some unlit house. People are settling in for the night. Mark will soon be home with his kid. And, if there's anything just in this universe, Syd will soon be next to me again.

  Time passes. I have to check the time stamps just to assure myself it has been minutes, not hours. Finally, the phone vibrates again.

  It's Mark with the information about the casino. I grit my teeth. Maybe I should have offed the idiot.

  I go back to waiting, despite how badly I want to call her and make her give me an answer.

  At length, she replies, Okay. I can do that. I'll head out in ten.

  I type, Perfect.

  Then I floor it the whole way home.

  ***

  I reach home with time to spare, so I try to straighten up the living room. That doesn't last long because the house cleaners keep it in shape. Instead, I check the wine bottle. A few glasses left. She might take it wrong if I have it waiting, though.

  So I pace. Back and forth.

  I glance at the clock every ten minutes to find it has only been two minutes instead. The urge to call her makes my fingers restless. She could put her phone on speaker and talk to me during her drive over. I just want to know she's there. That she's really on her way.

  Then a car door thuds in my carport.

  I still and wait. After a moment, footsteps on the porch. I force myself to stay put. Wait for the doorbell. If I'm at her too soon, she might take it wrong.

  Then the bell rings. I cross the living room, silently count to three, and pull open the door.

  Syd is wearing a long sheer top and tight, torn-up jeans. I somehow thought she would fall right into me, devastated and crying, but I know her better than that. She's not even in tears.

  She does look tired, and the side of her mouth twitches in a sad smile.

  I step back. She enters, dropping her purse next to the couch like she always did before. But I can't wrap her tight and meld into her like we used to.

  So I just stand there.

  “Hey, Dim,” she says, breathy, and touches her hand to my cheek.

  My chest fills with hope. If I can lure dozens of people to their death, maybe I can—just once—use that people skill for good.

  She studies me before speaking.

  “You doing okay?” She sounds earnest.

  I don't know what to say, so I just give a tight nod. I'm not alright, but she might take that wrong. She might take any of this wrong.

  She sighs. “Look, I didn't mean to set you up like that. It wasn't cool of me.”

  “I could've gotten you an apple.” After I say the words, I feel even worse.

  In hindsight, I had a hundred opportunities to stop by a store in Virginia. But I didn't. It didn't occur to me then. I would have never guessed an apple could cause so many problems.

  A chick named Eve had a similar realization, I hear.

  “You're just gone so much.” Syd's voice sounds so empty and hollow. “I never really know when you'll be back, what you're doing, or anything at all. I don't want to be that needy girlfriend, but it's so frustrating. I know it was meant to be casual, but I thought it could be . . . more. I just wanted some way to believe you thought of me.”

  She rubs her temple with one hand. “I had the story of Aphrodite and Dionysus stuck in my head since we met. Probably a little vain of me, but whatever.”

  She drops onto the couch.

  I remain silent, letting her guide the conversation. I'm no longer worried she might tell me the truth. If I'm going to fail, I want the chance to at least try first.

  “I'm so overwhelmed, Dim,” she says, and I can tell she wants to cry but won't. “My uncle, he has me helping him on a . . . project. Sometimes, I just hate it. I really hate it. But he's the reason I chose this degree. To help him out. So I keep plugging away.”

  She goes quiet. I don't want her to stop, not now. If she stops talking, she'll start thinking and remember all the ways I screwed up.

  I find my voice. “What project?”

  She rolls her eyes, but there's such exasperation on her face, I think she might not answer just because of the effort. “My uncle, he focuses on the religion, science, and culture of pre-Islam Arabia.”

  “I thought Aphrodite and Dionysus were Greek myths.”

  She chuckles, but she seems bitter. “Yeah, they are. I had to study different myths to get my degree, and the Greek and Roman ones were the most popular. But my uncle and I, we're mostly interested in Arabian tales.”

  “So he's doing what?” I try to follow what she's telling me, but I'm not sure what she's getting at. “Is he writing a thesis or something?”

  She laughs again, but her mood is darkening. “He believes . . . Well, he has some strong theories and—” She hesitates. “ —evidence that it's possible . . . ”

  “That what's possible, Syd?”

  Her words are kind of strangled, like she's wrestling each one and forcing them out of her mouth: “Well, you know that multimillionaire who lives out the desert? Karl Walker?”

  My brain halts.

  Syd continues. “He thinks . . . that Karl has, uh, a jinn.”

  The world tips.

  “A what?”

  “Well, in modern day, a . . . ” She cringes. “He thinks Karl Walker is keeping a genie.”

  Whatever brain power I had dissipates. “Why—Why would he think that?”

  This is one of those times I switch to auto pilot, because my mind is fixated on a single thought:

  How the hell does Syd's uncle know about me?

  “He has a lot of reasons. Just a look at the Walker family history would show you they seem to have a lot of good luck.”

  I swallow hard. “So what did you say your uncle's name is again?”

  “Larry.” She frowns. “Look, I know it sounds . . . dumb. I never tell anyone. But it's there, Dim. Karl has something up his sleeve, and we really think it's a j
inn.”

  I think I might pass out.

  Who the fuck is this Larry?

  “Hey, I meant to change clothes,” I say, distant. “I'll be right back, okay? Help yourself to the fridge.”

  I hurry across the room and down the hallway to my bedroom. I shut the door behind me without flipping on the light and set to work pawing through any documents I have saved from the manila envelopes as of late.

  I have no idea how this all fits together, but Phil lectured on Pre-Islam Arabia. If I'm right that the back-to-back wishes are related, then Larry might tie into the fraudulent claims against Doctor Patricia Kerr and her association with Phil Ballantyne.

  For my whole life, I had thought I didn't exist.

  Come to find out, people have been looking for me.

  I stop myself from exiting the room before swapping clothes, then try to act like my entire universe didn't just become reorganized. I take a seat in the chair across from the couch. Syd seems to be in deep thought. Probably about the jinn.

  Syd had been lying naked across my lap that day on the bed, watching Aladdin and going off on a tangent about the evolution of the jinn folklore. My skin pricks with goosebumps. Neither of us had realized she had been talking about me.

  I'm not allowed to tell her the truth. I also refuse to lie to her. This situation just became more complicated.

  I try to sound properly intrigued, but not panicked. “So, what do you guys know about this . . . jinn?”

  Syd props her head on her hand, her elbow on the arm of the couch. “Some things, but not a lot. We know he's bonded to a master.”

  “Sucks to be him,” I say, keeping the ball in her court.

  “Yeah.” She has a weird sort of smile. “There's not much the jinn can do about his situation. As a sort of fail switch, the master bond keeps the jinn . . . alive.”

  I sit forward. This is news to me.

  “The what—How?”

  Syd's tone is like we're talking about the lineage of racehorses and not my hypothetical death. “Well, simply put, if the master dies and there's no one to take over the bond, then the jinn dies.”

  The hum whirrs right along with my thoughts.

  How is this connection possible? How the hell is any of this possible?

  First, I'm not even the same species I had, foolishly, thought I was. Now, I'm magically linked to the heartbeat of the Walker next-of-kin. Essentially, if Karl and Silvia died at the same time, so would I. Maybe it's for the best Silvia refuses to fly anywhere.